Harry Potter and the Really Old Sorcerer's Shiny Red Rock
by tamer.of.the.wild.things.13
Summary: HIATUS. sorry. . . .
1. The Boy Who (Just Barely) Lived

**Harry Potter and the Really Old Sorcerer's Shiny Red Rock**

 _Chapter One:_ _The Boy Who (Just Barely) Lived_

I read fanfiction and like to know what I'm getting into before I invest a lot of time in reading, so I'm not disappointed. I plan on working through Harry's entire seven years, so this fic will take a lot of time if you're willing to stick with me. The first chapter is followed by everything you need to know before you decide to stick with this story so please read the A. N. at the end!

 **Disclaimer:** This is going to be a long haul, so I'm going to make it very clear from the start that I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I do not own the characters or the original plots. I am using the characters and many situations as a baseline to create a fanfiction story because I love the Harry Potter world. I am not making any money or other benefit from the writing and sharing of this story other than the happiness I get from reviews and readers. I have inserted many of my own ideas, but since many people in the same fandom have similar head canon, I am sorry for any resemblance to the works of anyone else. In short:

 ** _I do not own Harry Potter. This is a work of fanfiction made to resemble the original. I am making no profit from writing or sharing this._**

All of the shit in Mr and Mrs Dursley's world hit the fan on the first dreary, normal Tuesday of September. Honestly, if you had told them the night before everything that was going to go down, they might have slapped you…. and they definitely would have laughed (well, maybe. They might be a little too uptight for that, but one never knows…. perhaps maniacal, panicked laughter?). Mr Dursley hummed off-key (how do you even _do_ that? He must be an awful singer) as he put on the ugliest maroon and vomit-green tie ever. Over a canary-yellow shirt, no less, if he weren't looking in the mirror to tie the damn tie (which he had to do, otherwise he wouldn't be able to manage it), it would be tempting to say he looked that awful because he didn't own a mirror. Which he does, obviously…. and yet his clothes are still, well…. you get the picture.

Anyways, meanwhile Mrs Dursley was trying to get their kicking and hollering toddler into his highchair. The pair of wonderfully inane lovebirds had managed to produce (in a rare bout of friendliness, because imaging repetitive, ummm…. coupling? between these two kind of hurts) a bouncing (literally, he has enough blubber to probably bounce) blond bundle of…. joy. They called their son Dudley (if that is really his name, you might never know, but it's what they called him anyways—why? Who knows…. it's a hideous name, but to each his own and in their opinion—and no one else's, rest assured; are you kidding, the neighbours could see how misbehaved he was—there was no finer boy anywhere.

). The tot, apparently in a moment of brilliance belying his slow appearance, was the only one who noticed the large tawny owl who fluttered by the window and he was distracted enough that his mother finally managed to wrangle him into the chair.

Since Mr Dursley worked as an average middleman at the firm known as Grunnings, that sold drills, he had to leave for work soon. (Wow, right? What a catch!) Anyways, besides being stuck in a job that wouldn't lead him anywhere great, he was also a rather heavy-set, balding man (though he took a disproportionate pride in his large moustache. Hmmm, making up for something, perhaps?) with almost no neck and pudgy little hands.

Therefore, he picked up his briefcase, gave his wife the cursory peck-on-the-cheek goodbye (again, do we really want to imagine anything more?) and tried to kiss his wayward son (though he missed, because you all know he's not the most coordinated walrus and Dudley was having a fit anyways, so he wasn't even going for a target that was sitting still). As the brat threw his breakfast at the nearest wall, Mr Dursley ducked out of the way, hitting his head on the fridge as he swerved; with only a fleck or two of the mush making it onto his light shirt unnoticed.

His darling of a trophy wife—who had nearly twice the normal amount of neck—honestly if she had breast implants she'd be a real-life Barbie (minus the pretty face, because she also had squinty eyes, horsey teeth and a rather large forehead). Gasped and he thought she might come running over to comfort him, but her indignance was due only to the fact that she'd broken a nail. So he left the kitchen, getting into his car and preparing to back out of number four's drive.

It was only on the corner of their street that he noticed the first sign of something out of the ordinary. There was a grey and black cat sitting on the boulevard reading a map. Doing a double take, he stomped on the brakes jerkily and stuck his head out the window to look again. Yes, there was the cat, now standing on the corner of the street, turned towards him, but there was no map in sight. He shook his head. What was he thinking? Cats can't read! It must have just been a trick of the light, yes, that's it. The light reflecting off his big, shiny new car (still say he's compensating at this point) just made him think he saw things that weren't really there. Or maybe he'd hit his head harder than he thought. Maybe he should get a CAT scan later (if he had a better sense of humour, it might even have occurred to him that that irony was vaguely amusing. However, the only thing that outweighed his bulk was his dullness). Did his healthcare even cover that? Probably not. Still, he frowned and contemplated the creature. It stared back and if possible, gave him a stern look. He shook his head again. As he drove around the corner and down the road, he continued to watch the cat in the rear-view. As much as he wanted to ignore anything odd, it was almost a compulsion. The cat was now reading the street sign that said, 'Privet Drive.'

 _No, dammit!_ He cursed in his head as he jigged his foot over the brake pedal again. _Not reading, cats don't read signs or maps. The cat was only looking at the sign_ , he reassured himself. He went back to thinking about his mundane job. He was hoping to get a large order of drills today that might even land him the promotion he'd been after for the last five years (yeah right, good luck with that one, slick).

Once he hit the awfully confusing (for small, slow minds, anyhow) roads of downtown London, however, drills were the last thing on his mind. Sitting in the usual morning traffic jam, minding his own other than the occasional honk and traffic finger to the other drivers in his way, he couldn't help but notice there were a lot of funny looking birds about. He tried to wave them away from his car (after all, he'd just had it washed…. again).

Now, though the Dursleys had everything that they ever wanted (at least, that's what they'll tell you; Mr Dursley perhaps a mite more convincingly than his wife), they also had a —gasp!—dirty little secret. Well, one dirty little secret and one silly, inconsequential (and kept for an irrational fear) secret. And the strange birds? Well—owls if Vernon had to guess, they reminded him far too much of his in-laws for comfort. He avoided looking out the windows for the rest of the drive (though that made him get into almost five accidents, no less—and the trivialities of his job were driven from his mind again).

Just past downtown, Mr Dursley was finally nearing the industrial park where the company he worked for was located. As he pulled up to a commercial centre to pick up his boss's dry-cleaning (he was a suck up like that even though he pretended he was above such menial tasks), he noticed several strangely dressed people milling around. People who were wearing cloaks, of all things! And their hats…. Never, in all his years, had he seen such offensive hats before. He and his wife (though quite the opposite) thought themselves to be very tolerant, but this was going too far. Seriously, the get-ups you saw on teenagers these days; it was like they all went to the build-an-odd-getup factory! Mr Dursley's beady, roaming little eyes fell on a huddle of the weirdoes who were standing near the entrance to a warehouse complex. The balding blond was quite offended by what he saw. They were whispering excitedly together and many of the weirdoes weren't even young! _That man, the one right there, had to be at least older than Mr Dursley himself was, and, and…. he looked like Robin hood with that hat_ (nod to McGonagall's style of hat, yeah! And don't even start about how Dursley knows a classic like Robin Hood) _The nerve of that man! It was utterly disrespectful,_ if Mr Dursley did think so himself. Then he realized that, _no, it was probably just some ridiculous stunt on the weirdoes part, probably to collect money from honest, hard-working men like himself for some obscure cause._

He snorted. Yes, that was it. And they wouldn't be getting their grubby; greedy little paws on his money today. He mad a rude gesture at the huddle as he re-entered his vehicle with the dry-cleaning and drove off. It was only a few minutes later that he pulled up to the Grunnings car park (where he still didn't have his own marked space, so he tried to fit his car into the small space on the end). His little mind was back on drills. Until….

"Watch it," he grunted, shoving at the man he'd stumbled into at the end of the parking lot.

The man, a tiny old thing, tripped (over a magenta coloured cloak—Dursley had had it up to here with these people and really? If they had to dress lie idiots, did it have to be in such an eyesore of a colour as magenta?) and fell. It took a few moments (of not helping him up, obviously, he should have paid more attention to where he was going) before Mr Dursley even realised (big surprise, what with his brains and all) that the little man was carrying a toad. Moreover, he didn't seem in the least upset at having been knocked (his own fault, of course) to the ground. Quite the opposite, in fact, Dursley wondered, as the man's face broke into a huge grin and began speaking in such a high-pitched voice that passers-by began to stare.

"Nothing could upset me today, my dear Muggle! It is a happy, joyous day!"

The old man then proceeded to hug Mr Dursley around the middle (to hug him, the nerve!) and then trundle off. (There was a sticky patch of toad sludge underneath the pocket of his button-up; however, he didn't notice—he was too preoccupied trying to sort out the interaction in his fuzzy head.) It took a while for Mr Dursley to move from where he'd stopped. He was flabbergasted (or, he would be, if he knew what that even meant). He had just been hugged by a very strange complete stranger (he was pretty sure that violated his personal space). He was also vaguely aware that he might have been called a 'mubble'…. whatever that was. He was rattled, unsettled, and uneasy. He hurried to the main building and set off for the second floor, seriously hoping he was imagining things (which he had never hoped before, since he thought that imagination was a horrid little thing and he didn't terribly approve of it's use).

Mr Dursley didn't have a window. No, he worked in a cramped little cubicle in the bullpen of the second floor. If he had a window, he probably would have found it much more difficult to concentrate on drills that September day. As it was, he didn't see the plethora of owls swooping back and forth in broad daylight (though passers-by in the street did, after all- not everyone can be gifted with that much denseness). In fact, our dear Mr Dursley managed to have a wonderful morning. He had yelled at all five of the frightened young interns (the only people who would listen to him rant, and the only ones lower than him on the corporate totem pole anyways- and they were mostly afraid because of his bulk and not that he held any real power within the company). He had made several important calls (in his mind anyways, so what if one of them was to his own mother?) and complained a bit more to the intern he managed to corner at the water cooler. Therefore, he was in a very good mood right up until lunchtime. He'd been having such a productive day, in fact, (he had managed to sell a load of twelve crates of drills to a local hardware store, never mind that the higher ups…. and the guy in the cubicle next to him, had managed to sell just that each in under an hour) that he thought he'd reward himself with a treat from the little shop on the corner (never mind that Mrs Dursley had packed him a lunch, honestly, that woman's cooking was vile).

He'd completely forgotten about all the people in the weird cloaks (just goes to show you that his mind isn't very big or well-developed) until he passed a group of them next to the small shop, called 'Matuschek's Cookies and Gifts.' He loved the sweets here, but the tension between the manager and the cashier, Klary-something-or-other really grated on his nerves (kudos if you know the reference….). He glared at them angrily as he passed and made a show of swaggering by confidently (he looked more like a chubby, ugly, toddler stomping around in a tantrum). He couldn't pinpoint why, exactly (chalk another point up for his intelligence, folks), but these oddly dressed people made his restlessness soar to new heights (not that he'd use such a poetic description….). This lot was whispering just as excitedly as the last and he couldn't even see any of their collecting tins! What kind of a disorganised organisation were they, anyways? As he passed again, on his way back to the office, he had to stop at the crosswalk and he overheard a bit of their conversation (not that he _ever_ eavesdropped, no, he left that kind of shit to his wife…. he was much too respectable and upstanding).

"—no, in Godric's Hollow—"

"—the Potters, that's what I heard—"

"—yes…. late last night—"

"—their son, Harry, I think—"

"—oh, just a little, one, that—"

"—couldn't stop him—"

"—even the Aurors—"

"—get there on time—"

"—and now Dumbledore—"

Dursley stopped dead in his tracks; fear lacing it's way down his spine. He looked back at the weirdoes, opened his mouth to speak, and out came a, "Wha?"

The odd strangers looked at him funny (imagine that, as if _he_ were the bizarre one. Weirdoes.) but made no move to answer. He stood there gaping like a fish out of water for several seconds, then shut his mouth again. They began gesticulating wildly with their hands again as soon as he walked away, trembling.

When he got back to the office, Mr Dursley was in such a bad state that he turned to the secretary nearest his cubicle and barked at her not to disturb him. Giving him a, 'WTF, why would I do that, I don't even talk to you,' look, said secretary shook her head and returned to her own work. Dursley then picked up his phone, but abruptly changed his mind. _No, no need to worry Mrs Dursley_ (who even refers to their own wife as Mrs So-and-so? There's something wrong with their relationship) _. They could be talking about anyone, really._

Mr Dursley thought about his in-laws and about the sister Mrs Dursley pretended she didn't have. The Dursleys didn't think they could survive the scandal if people found out about…. (dun, dun, dun!) the Potters. That uppity show-off and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. Mr Dursley knew, from his incessantly chattering wife, who knew from her hometown gossip grapevine that the Potters had a young son too, though they had never actually met him. Nor would they want to- he was another good reason for keeping the Potters away- they didn't want their precious Dudley interacting with a child like that! Their greatest fear (though nestled in a long list of other fears) was that somebody (anybody, really) would discover that they were related to…. _them_. It would be awful, for sure.

He stroked his moustache lovingly (and he thinks the guy in the cloak is a weirdo?) and considered. _Yes, Potter isn't such an unusual name. There have to be loads of Potters out there with sons named Harry. Of course there were._ (Yeah, of _course_ there are. You just keep telling yourself that, Dursley. There might actually even be one, a weatherman, on the Australian news. Who knew?) Besides, when he thought about it more, he wasn't even certain his nephew's name was Harry at all. It could have been Harvey for all he knew. Harold, Harris, Henry! Howard, Hartley? Hurley, maybe? He'd never even laid eyes on the boy. There was no need to worry Mrs Dursley. (Again, Dursley? What, don't you love her enough to call her Petunia? Or maybe you just don't know how to pronounce it. It is a rather long word….) It always upset her to speak of her sister anyways. Not that he blamed her- oh, no! Why, if his sister had the nerve to be like _her_ , why, he didn't even know what he'd do. He'd certainly not want a sister like that…. Thank goodness Marge was as upstanding a citizen as he was. Still…. their lot did use an awful lot of owls…. and the weirdly dressed people….

Mr Dursley obviously found it a little harder to concentrate on selling more drills that afternoon. The large order he'd been hoping to land had even fallen through, so much for that promotion…. (You wouldn't have gotten it anyways, slick. You see that girl over there in the power-grey suit? Yeah, the one you made fun of for being a housewife who should mind her own and stay out of a man's workplace? Uh-huh, glad you noticed her. Anyways, she just landed a foreign account and got the promotion.) He hadn't gotten any work done, no drills sold at all. By the time he could punch out and leave the building at five o'clock, he was ready to pull his own moustache out (and that was saying something, because he dearly loved that ugly thing).

He kept his eyes on the road and avoided the cloaked people still meandering around downtown, never once looking up for fear of seeing another avian menace and didn't even yell at anyone on the motorway because he was so frazzled. As he finally, finally, pulled up in front of number four, he immediately spotted the tabby cat from earlier (and if that didn't just sour his already peachy mood….). The blasted thing was now sitting on his cement garden wall. He was fairly certain it was the same cat, it has rather peculiar markings around it's eyes…. almost as if there were a pair of glasses drawn on.

He turned to said cat as he exited his vehicle and said, in as firm a manner as he could manage, a reprimand to leave his premises at once.

"Shoo!"

The cat did not move an inch. Actually, it appeared as though the cat raised an eyebrow at him, in an, 'Are you kidding me?' gesture. Then it gave him a stern, no nonsense look. Was this regular cat behaviour, Mr Dursley wondered? He tried valiantly to pull himself together before going in the house. He was definitely _not_ going to mention any of this to his wife. It didn't help that the tabby followed him up the walk and planted itself in front of the living room window. He shuddered. Even _they_ couldn't control cats, could they?

Mrs Dursley had lived through yet another uneventful, nice, normal day in the neighbourhood. Over dinner (poorly cooked by Mrs Dursley herself, as usual), she told her husband all about Mrs Figg's smelly cats—he almost choked on his own tongue at that one—Mrs Next-Door's problems with her daughter (because given her own wonderfully behaved child, she's definitely in a position to be commenting on other people's parenting, you know); and how the people getting their driveway re-done down the block were so inconsiderate, making all that racket (never mind they'd had a sinkhole from slip-shod construction due to a malfunctioning Grunnings drill bit that broke off in the concrete and had formed an air bubble there—that was just a minor inconvenience for them). She also told Mr Dursley (so I guess he's not the only one who refers to his S.O. in such an impersonal manner- a rare burst of friendliness, I tell you!) how Dudley had learned a new word (which happens to be 'No!' surprise, surprise—what a verbose one-year old).

Mr Dursley continued to try and act casually. He actually tried to whistle and lean on the wall (someone's been watching too many cheesy movies). Once Dudley had been put to bed, he made his way into he living room just in time to catch the news. He wished he hadn't (which was new too, he just didn't hold with wishful thinking, it got you nowhere, really). The newscaster droned in an upbeat, but drily professional voice:

"The Dow-Jones is down this quarter and the TSE is holding steady. The market is finally looking up again…."

He poured himself a large brandy (a pattern will emerge…. but he's not an alcoholic, no…. of course not), and took a seat on the couch.

"There was an apartment fire in the eight-hundred block of Beacon Street. No one was injured, but…." (Lol, Cheers!)

He could hear Mrs Dursley tidying up dishes in the kitchen and he glanced at his glass. _Nah, why get up? He'd just get her to put it away for him later anyways._

"And finally, bird-watchers the country over have reported that our owls have been behaving rather oddly today." Well _that_ got his attention. He sat up straighter.

"While owls normally hunt at night and are rarely, if ever spotted during the day, there have been hundreds of sightings of them flying every which way since sunrise this morning. Experts are still unable to explain why these birds have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." Dursley strained his ears and glanced at the kitchen door to see if Mrs Dursley was hearing any of this.

The journalist smiled, a perplexed little sign of his mirth, and continued, "Most puzzling. Now, over to Jim with the evening's forecast."

The weatherman, standing in front of a blue and green map of the London area, began in a crisp voice, "Viewers from areas all over, as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire and even Dundee have been calling in to let us know that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a shower of shooting stars! Perhaps it may be that people are celebrating Bonfire Night a little early this year. Remember, it's not until next week, folks. I can, however, promise you a wet night tonight. The temperature in Surrey, in particular will drop below zero overnight and…."

Dursley sat immobilised in his chair. Shooting stars all over the country? Owls up and about during the middle of the day? Bizarre people in cloaks showing up all over the place? And a whisper, a snippet about the Potters…. He shook his head in denial, as if that alone would stop the coincidences from piling up on him. Even his greatly diminutive mind had to realise at some point that this was not boding well for he and his wife's plan of 'ignore them all and maybe they'll cease to exist.' Things were looking grim in the sister-in-law-the-freak department.

Which is why, Mr Dursley decided, that there was nothing for it. He'd have to mention it. As Mrs Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of steaming tea, he steeled himself to say something to her. He stood and busied himself at the cabinet, putting off the inevitable for a minute more as he added a generous helping of more brandy into his tea. He cleared his throat as inconspicuously as possible, then a bit louder when that failed to get his wife's attention.

"Erm, Petunia, darling, you haven't, uhhh, by chance—you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

"No." She turned a cold stare on him, shocked and angry as he'd expected and continued sharply, "Why?" She folded her glossy magazine in front of her and pulled it down a bit to glare at him.

"Erm…. just, you know, funny stuff on the news." Mr Dursley deflated a little under her stare, "Owls all day…. shooting stars all night…. a lot of—of weirdly dressed folks in town today…. Do you know what a 'mubble' is?"

"So?" the horsey-faced blonde snapped. "And no." she added tartly, though her eyes had a knowing gleam in them.

"Well—I, you know…. I thought maybe it had something to do with, you know, _their lot_."

Mrs Dursley, none too happy, sipped her tepid tea through pursed lips. My Dursley briefly pondered telling her he'd heard a whisper about the Potters, then decided that no, he wouldn't. It just wasn't worth it.

Instead, he continued, as nonchalantly as possible, "Their son…. He'd be about—about Dudley's age, now wouldn't he?" (Not possible Dursley, she's already onto you…. it's too late. It was too late as soon as you blundered up about 'mubbles.')

"Yes, I suppose. What of it?"

"Well, what's his name again? Horton, or…. maybe Howard, was it?" He trailed off uneasily, wondering if he'd maybe pushed too far. "Higgins? No…. Holmes?"

Mrs Dursley narrowed her eyes with a terse sigh. "Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me." (Well, no one did now did they, Petunia darling?) "And why are you so interested? What's it got to do with us?"

"Oh." His heart sinking, Mr Dursley continued. "Oh, yes. It is, I quite agree." He fiddled with his teacup and then added an extra shot of brandy for good measure. You never knew when a spot of brandy would be helpful, after all.

He wisely decided not to say another word about it as they retired to bed. As Mrs Dursley primped in front of their bathroom mirror (not that it's going to help her, mind you, and really, it's night time in your own home—what exactly have you got to look good for? Dursley? Ha!), Mr Dursley crept to their front window and peered down into the front yard. The cat was still sitting there, as nonplussed as ever. It was looking down the road into the distance, almost as if waiting for something to appear there out of thin air. Though as he watched longer, it glanced up at him questioningly, probably feeling the weight of his stare. He back-pedalled from the window quickly and out of the tabby's sight. Could be dangerous, you know…. You never knew with those people.

Dursley started turning down the covers and rearranging the lamp on his bedside table. He shook himself. Was he only imaging things? Was fear getting the better of him? Did any of this have anything to do with the Potters at all? And if it did…. if by some chance word got out that they were related to a pair of—well, a pair of…. no, he couldn't even bring himself to say it. He didn't think he could bear that thought…. and surely it couldn't bring good luck to the situation to even ponder on it. No, he'd just forget it all….

His final, comforting thought before drifting off into a fitful sleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for it to affect _them_. The Potters had no conceivable reason at all to come anywhere near he and Mrs Dursley. They knew very well what her sister thought of them and their sort. He couldn't imagine (maybe because he never practices imagination) how he and Petunia could get dragged into anything that might be happening.

Oh, Dursley, how very idiotic of you to think you could figure anything out. And how very wrong you are, besides.

The cat outside sent one last baleful glance at the light that just went out in the Dursley's upstairs window, then turned to the street. The tabby stood up and padded down to the edge of the lawn, turning around once and taking a seat on the cool grass. With a reproachful tilt of its head at a grasshopper trilling nearby, the grey and black cat watched the open end of the cul-de-sac with single-minded purpose, until an odd-looking fellow (even compared to the others) popped into existence and turned to smile at the tabby.

"Ah…. I should have guessed."

The man looked around in seeming confusion, patting his pockets as if he'd lost something. Eventually, he pulled a small object from a coat pocket and clicked the silver doo-dad with effervescent buoyancy. All of the streetlamps went out with a flicker. He marched merrily down the road to stop in front of the cat with a cutesy little (exaggeratingly overdone) bow.

"Fancy finding you here, Professor McGonagall."

The cat, meanwhile, had disappeared and in it's place sat a rather severe-looking woman, who incidentally happened to be wearing spectacles exactly the same shade and shape of the odd markings around the cat's eyes had been. She, like the man, was wearing a cloak, though hers was of a far more subtle forest green compared to his offensively neon electric-purple one. Her salt-and-pepper black and grey hair was pulled back into a tight, neat bun near the nape of her neck. She looked vaguely putout.

"Of course, you'd know it was me." She smoothed out the wrinkles in her cloak and shook her limbs slightly to wake them up.

"Of course, my dear. You sit ever so stiffly. No natural cat ever has sat quite like that."

She huffed. "You'd be stiff too if you had been sitting on a brick wall all day."

Dumbledore chuckled softly. "All day? But my dear, you could have been celebrating! I must have joined in a dozen feasts and parties on my way here." (He…. spent all day partying on his way there. And yet everyone still thinks he's the best possible leader? Seriously.)

Professor McGonagall stiffened a little haughtily. "Oh, yes. Everyone is celebrating, all right." She huffed angrily. "You'd _think_ that they could be a little more cautious. No—they're so wrapped up that even the Muggles have noticed! There were reports of owls and shooting stars on their news just this evening."

Dumbledore sighed. "You can't really blame them, though."

Professor McGonagall shook her head in irritation. "I know that. But still, they were out in droves today, not even dressed in Muggle clothing! A fine spot we'd be in if the Muggles were to discover our existence." She paused. "I suppose he really is gone, then, Professor?"

Dumbledore was fiddling in his pockets again as he answered absently, "Yes, it would certainly appear so, no? Would you like a sherbet lemon?"

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "A what?"

He smiled jovially. "A sherbet lemon, a type of Muggle sweet. They're _truly scrumptious._ " (Nod to what, anyone?)

"No, thank you," Professor McGonagall replied, somewhat curtly—she obviously knew when the situation merited seriousness. "As I was saying, Professor, even if You-Know-Who is gone—"

"My dear," Dumbledore interrupted, "Surely an educated person such as yourself can call him by his proper name?" (Tom, isn't it?)

As Dumbledore pried apart two sticky sherbet lemons to pop another into his mouth, he continued, "It gets ever so confusing, all this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense. I have never seen any reason to be afraid of using his name."

"Yes," Professor McGonagall began, slightly exasperated, "of course. Habit, you know."

Dumbledore simply smiled at her serenely.

Professor McGonagall's face became more serious. "Do you know what they're saying, Professor, about why Voldemort's gone?"

It was quite evident, from the set of her stance and the look on her face that whatever _they_ were saying was not something she was likely to believe unless Dumbledore told her it was true. (Tch. Blind trust.)

"Did he kill them?" A straight-to-the-point woman. Good on you, McGonagall.

As Dumbledore bowed his head, Professor McGonagall gasped and choked back a sob, refusing to break. Dumbledore reached out awkwardly and patted her on the shoulder. "There, there. I know…. I know…." (Oh, that was super-comforting….)

Professor McGonagall continued, "And Harry? Did he try to kill the boy too?"

Dumbledore nodded gloomily, peering into his hands.

Professor McGonagall's eyes widened. "So it's true? After all the evil—after everyone _else_ he's killed, he—he couldn't kill a helpless bairn? Of all the things to stop him…. How did the poor wee one survive, Albus?"

"It's anyone's guess, really," Dumbledore began, "we may never truly know."

Professor McGonagall pulled a small handkerchief from her cloak pocket and dabbed at her tearing eyes behind her spectacles.

Dumbledore spoke again. "Hagrid is, unfortunately late. I suppose it was he who let it slip to you that you could find me here?"

"Yes." McGonagall replied, "He also might have mentioned a possible reason why, Professor. He said you asked to meet him here with young Harry. Surely you can't mean to—"

Dumbledore interrupted. "Yes, I've come to drop Harry off with his aunt and uncle."

"You can't mean—oh Dumbledore. Surely not the people _here_ , for goodness sakes!" She jumped to her feet, first wringing her hands, then pointing at number four. "Professor, you can't. I have been watching this family all day. You couldn't find two people who are so insensitive. They have this son—a spoilt, lump of a child. Sweet Lily's son, come and live here? A fine place to leave an impressionable young one!" Had she been inclined to childish whims, she may even have stomped her foot after this impassioned declaration. As it was, she merely shook her head severely at the older man.

"It really is the best place for him," he began, not looking her in the eye (hmmm, wonder why? Maybe even he knows he's being a jerk), "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older—see here, I've even written them a letter!" He waved the envelope about merrily.

"A letter?" Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Honestly, Professor, do you think you can explain all this," she gestured around with a hand, "adequately in a _letter_?" Her voice became rather indignant as she continued, "These people—" eloquent as she habitually was, even she couldn't find the words to adequately describe exactly just what she thought of the Dursleys and so she gave up and strategically tried another track, "He'll be famous, Professor, I wouldn't be surprised if they declared a holiday in the future known as Harry Potter day. His relatives—they're just too _different_ from us and these people do not _tolerate_ things that are different than they! I have seen it with my own two eyes. People in our world…. they could be more help to him. At least they will know his story."

"Exactly!" Dumbledore crowed, as if he had just made a grand point, and looking at the severe woman over the top of his spectacles, "Famous before he can walk and talk—known our world over for an event he will not even remember. Can't you see how much better off he'll be, away from that fame, here?"

The woman opened her mouth to protest, changed her mind and closed it again, swallowing with difficulty around the lump of…. something…. forming in her throat. (You've got good instincts, girl, you shouldn't just push them aside!) Professor McGonagall didn't seem entirely convinced, but nodded tiredly anyways. "Yes…." (Tch. Too much faith in the old geezer.)

She sighed. "You're…. right—of course. How exactly is the bairn getting here?" She eyed his cloak warily, as if he might be hiding the tot in there somewhere.

"Well, Hagrid is bringing him, of course! That's why I asked him to meet me here."

She gaped at him. "I thought he meant he would meet both you and Harry here! Do you think it wise to trust him with something as delicate as an infant?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life, my dear," Dumbledore assured her (so the old guy does _some_ things right….).

"As would many, Professor. Even I. I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," she continued after a brief pause, "though you cannot pretend he's not careless. He does tend to—what in Merlin's name is that?"

A deep rumbling sound had broken through the silence blanketing them and it slowly grew louder as they spotted a headlight, though in the sky rather than on the ground and a large motorbike landed on the road in front of the pair.

"Ahh, Hagrid. At last." Dumbledore sounded relieved as he breathed the words (despite trusting him with his life? Sounds fishy….). "May I ask," he raised a sceptical eyebrow, "where you managed to get that motorbike from?"

"I borrowed it, Sir," began the rather giant (and unkempt) man, clambering off the motorbike, "Was young Sirius Black lent it me, he did. I've got'im, Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Both Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall leant forward over the small bundle of blankets nestled in the crook of the newcomer's arm. Through a tuft of jet-black hair, they could just make out a curiously shaped cut on the child's forehead.

Professor McGonagall swept a careful hand down the babe's cheek. "Is that where—" she began in a whisper.

"Yes." Dumbledore interrupted. "The boy will have that scar forever."

"Could we…. could you do something about it, Dumbledore?" she let her hand fall uncertainly from the baby's face.

"Even if I could, I wouldn't, scars can be very useful sometimes, my dear." (Yes…. and you use it so well later—much to 'the boy's' mental detriment, don't you? Did you know now already?) He waved his hands impatiently at the giant, gesturing for him to hand the child over. "Well, give him here! We should be getting this over with."

"Could I—say goodbye, Sir?" The giant man bent his great head and gave the baby what must have been a very scratchy, tickly kiss. Then his entire frame drooped as loud sobs wracked his body.

Professor McGonagall shushed him with a consoling pat on the arm. "I know it's difficult, but do you want us to be found?"

In front of them, Dumbledore stepped over to the path that led up to the door and laid Harry on the front welcome mat. He placed his letter on top of the boy's blanket and wandered back towards the other two.

"Professor, it's autumn. Not only is rain is expected and the temperatures have been below freezing for quite a few days already. Don't you think that perhaps a warming charm is in order?" Professor McGonagall whispered a mite critically. She hastily added, "One the Muggles won't be able to detect, of course."

"Ah. Yes. Well," the old man began, "that's it then. We've no further business here. We may as well go and celebrate."

Hagrid sniffled, "Yeah. I—I 'spose I should return young Sirius his bike back." He shuffled off, adding, "G'night, Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Scrubbing furiously at his streaming eyes with a coat sleeve, Hagrid swung his massive frame over the motorbike and kick-started it with a small roar. It rose, rumbling, into the night sky and flew off.

Turning to his remaining companion, Dumbledore spoke gravely, "I expect to be seeing you soon, Professor McGonagall."

He nodded curtly as she blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes in response, gaze unwavering from the small babe on the steps. Dumbledore turned and made his way back down to the corner of the street, where he took out his silver doo-dad and returned the light from the street lamps. From this distance, Dumbledore could just make out a small bundle of blankets on the Dursley's front stoop. Just beyond which, there was a graceful black and grey tabby cat slinking off down the street.

With a put-upon sigh, Dumbledore was gone in a swirl of electric purple cloak.

Harry Potter lay sleeping on the stoop left alone in the dark chill of night, unconsciously gripping the letter beside him in a small hand and dreaming peaceful dreams. In a few hours, the wee one would be rudely awoken by his aunt's awful screeching. For the next week, he would spend his hours being poked, prodded, pinched and stared at by his cousin, Dudley…. But right now, unbeknownst to the sleeping babe, all around the country, shouted in joyous abandon, or whispered in secret relief, at this very moment, people were toasting him—"To Harry Potter—the boy who lived!"

And unbeknownst to a certain silver-haired old gentleman, a very determined tabby cat slunk back and stubbornly kept watch over a sleeping babe. (You mama bear, you.)

And unbeknownst to all three, across the country in a small wood just outside of Godric's Hollow, a man silently wept for his sister, for his friend, falling on his knees and crying silently in the darkness.

So, here's the aforementioned (huge) author's note:

Hi, some of you may already know me from some of my previously written fanfiction. If not, let me introduce myself. My new penname is Tamer (formerly Chickie) and I've been around this site for a while already. Though Naruto is my favourite fandom to write (because I find it easy) it is not my first love. I originally came here looking for a FanFic version of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows that a colleague of mine suggested I read. Sadly, I have never seem to come across it (if anyone knows about an HP fanfic that replaces the last book, doesn't have everyone dropping like flies—because that was the fic author's issue—is well written and longer than J.K.'s original, please let me know where I can find it—plus I think it's Het only and closer to epilogue compliant than my usual EWE yaoi reads). I have however, developed quite a fondness (read, weakness) for yaoi and one of the pairings I have fallen in love with is Drarry. I also have a thing for Severus as Harry's mentor. Therefore, my mind has spawned this monstrosity.

In this fic, I am trying to stay as close to original as possible while still making some huge changes. I know that's sounds like an oxymoron, but hear me out. I am going to try and integrate my head canon as seamlessly as I can into the original story. To do this, I am going to make a lot of what can be considered 'monumental' changes, such as Sorting into different houses and casting Severus as Harry's father, though I am going to include explanations to make this all seem plausible if not entirely true in real canon. I will use existing cues from the movie and book-verses, including deleted scenes from the movies to make it seem like, yes, this is believable in the HP fandom. Also, I have a more tongue-in-cheek writing style than J.K. (read: sarcastic and author intrusive) and I am poetic in my descriptions (read: long-winded, lol) and I love dialogue to characterise my people rather than just their actions (read: see my characterisation in 'For Granted's' first few chapters or 'Steamed Up.'

While I don't want to give away spoilers for my writing, I _do_ think that you have a right to know what to expect before you decide to spend your time with my story or not so that you don't feel like I'm ripping you off by making claims in my summary and then not following through (because it's a pet peeve of mine when other authors do that and it's all I can do not to flame them).

First off, I may make some characters OOC. Sometimes this will be on purpose to suit my story's needs and other times it will be simply because this is the first HP fanfic I'm writing and I haven't quite gotten into the groove of writing these characters properly yet. I'm sorry if it bothers you, and rest assured, I will try my best not to deviate form canon personality. I may take more liberties with secondary and tertiary characters, however, such as Blaise and Daphne, so be forewarned.

Secondly, as previously mentioned, one of the biggest changes will be that it turns out Snape is Harry's father. I hope that the way I explain it makes sense, because I have come across a handful of very badly written fics where this is the main premise and they _never_ actually explain anything, which totally pisses me off. (One of the reasons I chose to finally write this, even though it's kind of a scary under-taking.)

Thirdly, the Sorting will be somewhat different. This will apply only to Harry and Hermione concretely, though there will be insinuations of more conversations with the hat that were not there before. Sorting will also play a large role in my version of the stories (particularly from book two onwards), including reference's to J.K.'s official website, Pottermore, to explain certain aspects of my story. I will be utilising her "Hatstalls" to my advantage in this theory (see McGonagall's bio and Flitwick's. They were both considered Hatstalls). On Pottermore, it means you were a toss-up between two houses. I know this because I myself was undecided by the hat after its customary seven questions and so it gave me the option of either being Gryffindor or Slytherin (silver and green all the way, guys—I guess I just haven't got Harry's 'upstanding moral fibre'!).

Fourthly, Fred and Hedwig do not die. I haven't decided with Sirius yet, and I think I'll keep either Tonks or Remus (possibly both) alive. Still not sure though, but I promise, Fred and Hedwig _at least_ are definitely safe. I know this could be a sticking point for some.

Fifthly, (and I'm about to piss half of you off right here, right now) Dumbledore is _not_ going to be the hero. I do understand that he did what he thought was best, but I'm really angry with the facts about how he treated Harry and Severus as nothing more than tools in the war. Overall, I still believe that he was one of the good guys, but definitely _not_ worth all of the trust and adoration heaped on him as he had. Sure, he had his moments where he showed he cared for them, but he also had his moments (and there were a lot more of these, I feel) where he ignores their suffering or uses them through manipulation. People are not pawns, even when there is a war going on. Neither is Ron. I still sometimes can't get over how mean he was to Hermione, and then he gets to keep her? Yeah, no, so not happening here. She grows up to be this amazing witch, an amazing woman and ends up with the man who turned his back on Harry during the tournament and then _abandons both of them_ on the Horcrux hunt? I felt that he betrayed them too many times to be redeemed (again, I still think that overall in the original he was one of the 'good guys' but man, he just really sucked at it, you know?). From the beginning, his personality will more resemble what he was like during fourth year. Also, even though Draco (and yes, I'll admit, he is one of my favourite characters and he's also a spoilt jackass with major daddy issues) does many, many bad things, he's not evil. There's a difference between wrong and genuine, pure evil. I believe that he never had a choice; like Narcissa says to Severus in year six, "He's just a boy." And he is—a boy who was raised a certain way, who did what he had to in order to protect his family and who _never had a choice_. Which is why, in my story, he will get the choice. So—Ron's "best friend" character will be quasi replaced with Draco and partly the Weasley twins/Ginny. Draco's "enemy" character will be semi replaced with Ron and on the other end, Nott (because his dad's a death eater too) will be the one with Crabbe and Goyle as his cronies. I will still use many of the same situations, though, rest assured, favourites such as the white ferret, Ford Anglia rescue and stuff will still be there, just a little different! (HP a la, "Scared, Potter?" anyone?) Oh, and for those of you who are worried that I'll bash James just because Severus is Harry's dad, I won't. Granted, I'm not going to sugar coat things (because he was an insufferable bully—not as bad as Sirius, that lovable git), but in the end, he'll still be 'one of the good guys.' I hope you'll appreciate how I write James and Severus together (not as in together, together, just as in simultaneously in this particular fic). Also, just because Ron and Harry aren't going to be besties doesn't mean the Weasley family 'adopting' Harry isn't going to happen—he will still be best friends with the twins and good friends with Ginny so many of the family scenes will still exist. Also, the Dursley summers (though it seems implausible with Harry being Sev's kid) will still happen, _at least_ up until the summer of year four. I know that seems vague, but all will reveal itself in due time, bwahahahaha. (Okay, I'm done with the wicked laugh now.) Also, PS Lucius will get his come-uppance in this story. He's one of my least favourite characters, besides Umbridge. Ugh…. Umbridge. We'll just deal with her later.

Lastly, the pairings will be different. I appreciate that J.K. addressed so many important issues in her books (racism, tolerance, child abuse, bullying, PTSD, slavery, etc. …. even though I believe the child abuse one could have been better hashed out…. which I hope to do here) but still, all of her pairings were het. One of my favourite/closest colleagues is gay (and leaving us this year…. waaaaah!) and I have no doubt he would have felt better in his own skin if he could have read a book when he was younger where it's ok to be gay. –Wow, that sounded chant-like even to me.— Obviously, since I ship Drarry, you can see where this is going, right? However, it also kind of irks me when you get into a yaoi pairing and then everyone writes all of the pairs in all of their stories as yuri or yaoi. Statistics people! Last time I checked only about 10% of the population is straight up (no pun intended) gay or lesbian and even though the percentage goes up to like 30% for bi, it's still not the majority (and especially not all) of society, so be a little realistic here, please!? Which is why in this version, most of my couples will be het (I might write some sex for them, but I'll mostly stick to my main yaoi pair) with maybe one other gay or bi couple as an off-to-the-side, B-plot romance. I think that the pairings are probably going to be most people's choosing point—and one of the most different things about her (J. K.'s) epilogue (as compared to mine)—since we ship our faves so hard, so I'll list them here (this doesn't mean it will happen right away—or that they don't go through other dating before they end up together, it's just the epilogue couples that I'm planning; because I do have a master plan for the whole project, bwahahaha…. ok, moving on, sorry):

Harry & Draco

Hermione & Blaise

Fred & Padma

George & Hestia (this one might change; it kind of gave me the squicks that he ended up with his twin brother's ex. I mean, was she with him because he was George, or because he was Fred's replacement? Would Fred have minded sharing—is that why George liked her? Ahhh—it drives me bonkers sometimes just thinking about it; but I kind of like having both of the twins end up with a twin, but from different sets of twins. What do you guys think?)

Ginny & Lee (this one might change…. actually, it probably will)

Seamus & Tracey…. Dean & Luna (these are listed together because they kind of swing or are more like a foursome. May change with Ginny's pair)

Neville & Astoria

Remus & Tonks (I thought about it, but yeah, I just can't bring myself to break them up)

Narcissa & Kingsley (definitely not from the beginning and a bit weird, I know, not going to everyone's cup of tea—but it'll mostly be unobtrusive, you know? but I find them kind of compelling in an odd way)

Fleur & Bill (couldn't break them up either)

Charlie & either Daphne or Oliver. Haven't decided yet (Oliver might also end up with Ginny instead of Lee). He could end up with my most prominent OC (there are very few…. Kyle might actually be the only one, but anyhoo….) even though Kyle is youngish for him.

Severus & someone. (This is definitely going to be a het pairing, I just don't see Sev as gay or bi, but I'm not sure with whom yet, I was debating between Professor Sinistra, Madam Rosmerta and an OC. We'll see…. dating is kind of OOC for him, so it'll be an awkward, but cute relationship, and just like Narcissa's love interest in won't be blaring, in-your-face).

So, if you can deal with all of that and are still here, then welcome to my very own HP Head Canon world. I hope you enjoy your stay (and my story). Thanks for sticking with me, bisous!

Love, Tamer

P.S. Most chapters will be based on the book chapters. Chapters labelled as fractions are ones that are entirely my own, instead of the original ones that I modify; I'm labelling them as fractions so that I can fit them neatly into the "regular" chapters. Movie bits may make it into either type of chapter. Just as a heads up, I am busy and updates will be sporadic, but I WILL NOT abandon this story, no matter how long it takes me to finish it. I cannot abide quitting.

The rating of this fic for right now is Teen, for swearing, sexual innuendos (usually in my brackets if you want to avoid them) and some minor violence. It will go up to M later for more sexual situations and worse violence.

Ok, I'm sorry I keep talking, but I also want to point out that: YES. I know Rowling has explicitly said that Harry is Harry's full first name and it is not short for anything, but the reason I use another name later is not to change this fact about him personally, but more to differentiate between Harrys, ok? So please don't bite my head off.

Finally, if there are any gay guys out there reading my stories, (and who are comfortable enough with their own sexuality to do so) could you maybe PM me, because I would really like an insider's views about gay sex. Seriously, guys, if you've read any of my shit you know I'm a bit of a stickler for realism, but let's face it—realistically, I've only ever been with guys even though I'm open to bi-curiousness and I'm a chick—so I don't know what it feels like on the guy's end even if I know what it's like for me. I'm interested in an open talk about it if anyone can handle that—it would be much appreciated.


	2. TheFatherWhoLived (and theOneThatDied)

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This is a work of fanfiction made to resemble the original. I am making no profit from writing or sharing this._**

A. N. I realise the part where McGonagall and Snape pick up Harry is a bit OOC because of the way they speak, but it's because they're talking to a toddler and the rest of the chap should be more in character. The average two-year old knows 100ish words by the time they're two. Since I assume Harry's aunt is the only one to speak much to him, and only a little, plus he's still one month shy of two, I'm giving him a vocab of about 50 words. It doesn't mean he's unintelligent or behind, but more that he hasn't had the opportunity to use his words.

P.S. I know I already told you about chapters, but this one is called one third instead of a half, because I'm squeezing two of my own original chapters between the original first and second chapters; so therefore I'll call the next one 'two thirds.'

 _Chapter One and one third:_ _The Father Who Lived (and the One That Died)_

Minerva McGonagall, though she trusted her headmaster explicitly and had no real prejudice against Muggles, being a half-blood herself, _did not_ trust the Dursleys, no matter what Dumbledore said about leaving Harry with them. With a grim countenance, she recalled the scene not an hour ago, when the Dursleys had finally woken and that awful Petunia woman had come out to put the empty milk bottles on the stoop. Upon seeing her nephew lying there, the woman had let out an ear-splitting scream. _Honestly_ , Minerva thought to herself, _who does that when you find an infant on their doorstep? Granted, it's not an everyday occurrence, but surely there's a more appropriate reaction?_

The blonde had then proceeded to holler for her husband, without even checking the child's well being. Said husband had arrived at the door, a look of hate-filled resignation on his face as he stared down at the young one.

"Well, Petunia," he had barked, "what does the letter say?"

Petunia had plucked the envelope gingerly from the infant's grasp and the pair had read it right there, their eyes darkening with each word. They would occasionally shoot dark looks down at the now awake baby. Once they were done scanning the letter, Petunia turned to her husband.

"Well, Vernon," she began, "what are we going to do?"

"I don't like it," the large man had grumbled. "Not one bit."

"Neither do I," she snapped, then her gaze fell on the baby and she murmured, quietly enough that Minerva almost hadn't caught it, her gaze softening fractionally, "but perhaps he's not like them?"

"Of course he is," her husband had proclaimed, "what else could he be?"

"Well," the woman looked nervous now, "if we…. if we keep him, perhaps we'll just make sure he doesn't become one of their lot."

"Petunia, I'm not having one in our house."

Petunia's gaze at her nephew snapped up to her husband and a steely glint appeared in them that Minerva hadn't seen all day. "He's only a boy, Vernon."

Vernon's face purpled and he raised his voice a little, "I'll not have one in the house!" With that, he had turned from the door, slamming it behind him, leaving his wife and her nephew out on the stoop.

With a cautious look around her, Petunia bent towards the baby, brushing a lock of his hair from his face. McGonagall had to slink closer, right up to the bush beside the door, to hear her next words.

"You have my sister's eyes," was breathed out sadly, then, as if afraid someone might have heard or seen her, she stood abruptly and gingerly picked up the bundle with an uneasy, but determined look on her face.

McGonagall peered through the living room window and watched as the letter from Dumbledore was burned in the fireplace by the blond whale of a man. She almost held her breath when Petunia appeared in the doorway with Harry, and Vernon's red face became clouded with anger.

"No. You _let him in_?"

Petunia squared her shoulders. "We won't tell him Vernon. He won't be like her."

"You think that will stop the old fool? You read his letter. They'll be wanting him back eventually."

"We won't tell him, Vernon." She spoke more firmly, "And we won't allow him to go to that school."

Vernon shook his head, glaring at his wife, but all he said was, "I swear, Petunia, if that boy gives me trouble…."

"He won't," Petunia assured him.

"He'd better not." Vernon left through the doorway to the kitchen and Petunia wandered towards the window and sat down heavily, whispering to the bundle.

"You hear that Harry? You need to be a good boy, can you do that for me?" She gently pulled her fingers down his cheek in a caress and glanced at the kitchen door nervously. She dropped her hand and sighed.

Minerva decided it was time to go. She still didn't trust either of the Dursleys, but at least, perhaps the sister was not as bad as the husband, she conceded, as she watched the blonde quickly and surreptitiously (albeit perhaps a little viciously) scrub a single tear from her cheek; then unwrap the bundle and place the baby on the floor over the spread blanket, going to tend to her own, now screaming, child upstairs.

McGonagall had proceeded to return to her office in the school where she taught and had just settled down on the settee for a quick rest when there was a knock at her door.

Wondering who on Earth would disturb her at this hour in the morning after all of the supposed celebrations yesterday, and with classes having been cancelled by Dumbledore, surely, she got up slowly and made her tired way to the wooden door of her office.

Standing there was the young new potions master, who had only begun teaching this year, a mere several months ago—though Minerva remembered him quite well from his days as a student.

Severus shuffled, then looked up at her and Minerva got a good look at his eyes, which were obviously red-rimmed and puffy from crying. _Right_ , she recalled, _he was young Lily's best friend. Of course he'd be upset._

"Professor?"

"You may call me Minerva, Severus. You are a professor now, too, as I keep pointing out."

"Profe—Minerva?" Snape sighed, looking up and down the corridor quickly. He then lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overhead.

"I must speak with you. It's urgent—and…. and there is no one else I trust."

This revelation puzzled McGonagall, but she gestured for the young man to enter her office nonetheless.

"Do you not trust our headmaster, Severus?"

"I do. To a certain point—I…. I do." The distraught young professor paced as Minerva sat behind her desk. His eyes snapped up and held hers for a time before he added, "But I trust you the most."

Minerva couldn't quite help herself, remembering the withdrawn Slytherin boy who had trusted practically no one other than Lily. So she asked, "Why, me Severus?"

"When I was a student here…. Even though I was in a different house than yours, you protected me the most. You were fair—not many of the other professors dared to discipline the…. the _Marauders_ as severely as you for the things they did to me. Not even my own head of house." Severus hung his head, adding in a whisper, "And Lily always said I could trust you with anything. That you're…. simply a kind and determined person."

Minerva could see offering praise for others was difficult for the young man and nodded gracefully. "You can, Severus. You can trust me."

He sat down heavily in the chair opposite her. "Good, because I have quite a story for you, Prof—Minerva."

She inclined her head to indicate she was listening.

"I know that most people assumed I loved Lily as—well, romantically I suppose. That simply isn't true. I loved her dearly, but more as a sister. We grew up together, Professor."

She nodded, summoning a tea service to her desk.

"My life before Hogwarts wasn't…. _pleasant_. When I met Lily, I finally felt like I had someone to call family. Someone who was like myself. The incident in fifth year, when I called Lily—when I slipped up and used _that_ word, she was angry with me for a long time. However, unlike most people assume, we did not simply stop being friends. We were too close for that, as I said, Minerva, we were _family._ It took a lot of work, but eventually, we made up. I even…. tried to get along with James for her sake."

Minerva raised an eyebrow. Severus coughed lightly.

"I said tried, Professor, not _succeeded_."

She smiled. "Of course."

"When she and Potter married, I was not happy but I supported them in any case. And when James came to me, telling me he could not father children, but that Lily desperately wanted them, I listened to him…. even though I did not like him."

At this, Minerva couldn't help but let the shock through on her face.

"He said that he was willing to adopt a child carried by Lily if someone they trusted were the…" the young professor, cool and collected as he usually was, seemed a bit flustered, " _sire_ , I suppose, for lack of a better term. Potter was rich and assured me he could hire a private Healer that could perform the necessary procedures. He asked me because I was already like family to Lily and he thought that would be a comfort to her. He also stated that it would help that we both had dark hair and eyes, so no one might even suspect the child wasn't his. He told me he wanted me to agree, but that if he had to, he would call in the life-debt I owed him for saving me from the Shrieking Shack. Since he seemed to care so much for the woman that I considered a sister, I agreed."

If Minerva had looked shocked before, she was positively flabbergasted now. As Severus paused to take a calming sip of his tea, she regarded him carefully.

"You're telling me this because?"

"Because I was the witness to both of the Potter's wills, as was Professor Dumbledore. Instead of a godmother and godfather being selected, James chose Sirius and Lily chose myself, two godfathers for Harry in case anything ever happened to them. It was agreed upon between the two of them that given my other _connection_ to the child, that I would be named guardian in the case of their deaths. Before they went into hiding, we even spent a great deal of time together—they intended to tell Harry the truth eventually, but raise him as if I were an uncle. Dumbledore doesn't know I am Harry's biological father—only the Healer, Lily, James and I know that. However, he does know the Potters will. And he still took Harry away. I—"

Severus, though a very stoic man, needed to pause and catch his breath before continuing. "I have looked everywhere, all day, Profe—Minerva. And I cannot find Harry. Dumbledore has taken him away and when I ask, he only says it is for the best though he knows he is completely ignoring Lily and James' last wishes. I…." it seemed difficult for the dark-haired man to finish his request, unused to asking for anything from others, but he pushed the words out anyways. "I need your help."

Minerva placed her teacup on the desk and began, sitting forward, "The prophecy said—"

Severus cut her off. "I know. I heard it. But Minerva—you are a sensible woman. You and I both know that Divination is the fool's gold of magic. The majority of prophecies are only fulfilled because they are self-fulfilling. That is why the department of mysteries hides them, so that they do not fulfil themselves. And if is the wording that is the problem, well…. James may not be Harry's biological father, but he adopted him and has raised him as his own for a year; and I have defied Voldemort more times than even he and Lily even though he is unaware of that…. so either way you look at it…." he trailed off.

"Severus, what of your ties to Voldemort himself? How do I know—how do I…." she trailed off, uneasily.

"I never willingly joined him, Minerva." Severus lifted his sleeve. "Yes, I took this disgusting mark, but I did it because I was already close with Mulciber and Avery from school, who were both _willing_ Death Eaters. The headmaster himself asked me to join Voldemort as a spy for the Order. When I overheard the prophecy, I was not worried, as I believed it was more likely to be the Longbottom boy—because of our situation. However, someone else must have heard Sybil's declaration to Dumbledore, as I later heard Voldemort knew of the prophecy and planned on going after the Potters himself while sending the Lestranges after the Longbottoms. It was at that point that I tried to bargain with Voldemort, to buy the Potters more time. I asked him to spare Lily, because that was the most believable cover, given that no one knew of the relationship I still had with Lily and James and the circumstances around Harry's birth and parentage. Now, after all that I have done for the Order, all I have done for Dumbledore himself at his request—after losing my friend," he paused and begrudgingly added, "and even James, Dumbledore hides Harry from me. With both Lily and James gone, I am the only family left he has. And do not tell me that his aunt Petunia is acceptable. I grew up with that woman. I do not want her anywhere near my godson…. son—" he struggled trying to define their relationship, and finished with, " _My_ Harry."

Minerva sighed. She thought back to the Dursleys, then looked, really _looked_ at the man sitting in front of her. "It won't be easy."

A very, very uncharacteristic smile lit up the potion master's face.

…...0.0.0…

Minerva and Severus had decided on a course of action. It was a complicated plan, but one they thought would serve them well, both to allow Severus to raise Harry and to convince Dumbledore that he _wasn't_. The only problem, much to the young potion master's dismay, was that preparations, both magical and otherwise, would take a long period of time—meaning Harry, at least for now, would still be at the mercy of Vernon and Petunia Dursley.

Severus had insisted that Dumbledore did not know about his childhood home in Spinner's End, so they had decided that Minerva would help the potion master to magically repair, enhance, conceal and ward the home. It would be where Severus brought Harry once they retrieved him from the Dursleys'. The complicated magic required for such strong protective and concealment charms, in particular, would take even a pair of powerful and clever witches or wizards, such as Minerva and Severus at least two or three months to properly set up and they didn't want to take any chances of anything going wrong. There was also paperwork that would need to be done (ahem, forged or fabricated, ahem), as well as a search for the perfect…. candidate.

Then, the pair would also have to convince the Dursleys of the merits of their plan. Minerva explained how Vernon was extremely opposed to wizard-kind and how Petunia herself was not exactly open about the subject either (Severus could attest to that at least). She also explained how Petunia seemed softer because it was a baby and how preoccupied Vernon seemed with material wealth. Severus knew they could use this to their advantage. They decided that to convince Dumbledore, there would need to be _someone_ living with the Dursleys, but neither one wanted to risk putting a magical child into that type of home. They had decided that they would find a Muggle orphan that resembled Harry and use magic to make it appear to others (particularly Dumbledore) that he was Harry convincingly enough that Severus and the true Harry would be left in relative peace. That way, the Muggles wouldn't resent the child. Finding the right child, though, and getting all of the legal documents in order took another several months.

When Minerva first approached the Dursleys (she did not think it prudent for Severus to be there just yet), she told them that while Harry had, in fact, lost a father to Voldemort, that he did have another one (it confused them for a while, but even Vernon managed to wrap his thick skull around it eventually). She told them, however, that the man that had written the letter wanted Harry to stay with the Dursleys at all costs for some reason. Vernon was livid and claimed he should not have to suffer the boy's presence if he had a father of his own kind. So Minerva outlined their plan.

Once the Dursleys were assured that the child would be an average, normal, Muggle child and that Severus would be paying a monthly stipend out of the small vault his mother had left to pay for the child's expenses, along with a bit extra, the Dursleys were far more agreeable. Vernon's beady eyes looked positively alight with greed when the money was mentioned and Petunia quietly told Minerva it would be nice to have another child, as after Dudley she had been told she wouldn't be able to carry another—as long as it was, in fact, a Muggle child (she said this with a furtive glance at her husband).

Severus and Minerva discreetly spent a few weekends out of the castle searching Muggle orphanages until they found the perfect child. The baby in question was the only survivor of a car crash that had killed his parents. He was only a couple of months older than Harry himself and had green eyes and hair of a dark enough brown that he could pass for Harry, who had black hair himself. Using a bit of magic, Minerva and Severus recreated the lightning bolt scar on Harry's head on the other boy's and used remnants of Lily and James' magical signatures from their wands to seal the magic. They prayed this would be enough to convince Dumbledore's wards around the Dursley property.

Petunia had convinced Vernon that because it was a Muggle child, they should legally adopt him and raise him as their own son instead of their nephew. Minerva and Severus allowed this, but said that to convince Dumbledore, the boy would have to have Harry's name. The Dursleys weren't too happy, as they thought Harry a rather common name, so they compromised with Minerva. They would call the boy Harold (in their opinion a much posher sounding name) as that could have the nickname Harry and that they would drop the James because they didn't want a boy of theirs named after one of _that lot_ , but they would keep the Potter if they had to, as a middle name and tack on Dursley at the end. Minerva thought that seemed like a good compromise, as even Dumbledore couldn't fault the Dursleys for adopting their nephew and rearranging his name a bit, now could he?

Severus was adamant that the real Harry still be called Harry, as that was the name Lily had chosen and to Minerva's surprise, he was even insistent that the James be kept to honour the man who had captured his sister's heart and chosen to raise the boy as his own. However, he did recognise the fact that in order to hide, precautions did need to be taken. While he would raise his son as Harry James, on paper the boy would be known only as Henry J. P. Prince (Minerva thought it a funny irony when she learned Snape's mother's maiden name and thought that since there had been multiple Muggle princes of Great Britain who were named Henry but called Harry it would be an interesting play on words to have Snape's son called the same thing—particularly since he couldn't take Snape's last name as that would be a dead giveaway or keep the Potter name for the same reason, but using the Prince last name as a tie to Severus' family was a good way to tie him even closer to his biological father. In this way, his name would honour all three of his parents). It could also explain why Severus would suddenly inherit a child—they would simply say he was the child of one of Snape's Prince cousins that had died during the First Wizarding War, discovered after their deaths and in need of a guardian.

Minerva had also decided (though Snape was set against it) that the summer before Harry was to start Hogwarts, he would need to spend the summer with his aunt's family, and fake Harry would need to be scarce during that time, so that Dumbledore would have no suspicions about Harry's residence when the Hogwarts letters were magically addressed during the summer. The issue of hiding Harry's scar also came up when Minerva remembered Dumbledore saying it could not be removed, even by magic—this would make it difficult for Severus and Harry to hide. Severus, thinking a bit differently, suggested that they hide it in plain sight—that they layer another magical mark on top of it to disguise it. They decided this was their best option, but that they should choose a semi-permanent spell rather than a permanent one—so that during the school year, the lightning bolt scar would appear only as Harry had received it. They accomplished this by placing a charm of their own creation. The charm worked with old family magic—since Snape (despite being considered unfit to inherit by his own grandparents—being labelled a half-blood by them because of his father—he was the only surviving Prince of his generation, and therefore whether his ancestors would have wanted it or not, he was the heir of the Prince family as the ancient magic itself did not care about the nomenclature of his blood status, only that there _was_ a surviving blood heir—no matter what purebloods claimed) could tap into their ancient magic. The charm made a small v shape appear on the end of the lightning bolt, giving it more the appearance of an arrow, or a crack through glass or ice—the charm was only activated, though, when near the blood wards of a Prince property (including the now newly-warded home in Spinner's End) or another member of the Prince line, such as Severus himself. Therefore, Harry would have the mark in their home and when he left as long as he was with his father. Once he was old enough to control his own magic, as Severus' only child—he too would become an heir of the Prince line and as such, would be able to vanish or call the mark himself.

Therefore, by the time all preparations had been made and Minerva finally allowed Severus to accompany her to the Dursleys to drop off the Muggle toddler, cast the charm on Harry's scar and take him home, three quarters of the year had already passed. Minerva, having been teaching all year and working on preparations had not had any time to check on the real Harry, as much as she had wanted to and was a little apprehensive of the state they would find him in, if his uncle's attitude towards him had been anything to go by. With a worried glance at Severus, she chose to remain silent on the subject as they prepared to make the journey to Privet Drive.

…...0.0.0…

Severus had not seen Harry since the last time he had visited with Lily and James shortly after they went into hiding. At the time, the infant had been only three months old. The night of his parents' death had been a year later and with the time he and Minerva had spent preparing, nearly another nine months had passed. It was only a month from his son's second birthday, he realised, as they waited for the darkness of evening to fall before approaching number four.

Just as Minerva made to go towards the front door from where they were hidden, Severus stopped her with a hand to the shoulder. Grasped by a sudden bout of the nerves, his monotone cut through the night to her ears.

"Professor?" she turned back slightly towards him, wondering why, after nearly a year of working together, he had reverted to calling her professor. "What if—" he took a deep breath, "what if I cannot do it? I am only one man. With Lily and James…. he would have had two parents. And as much as I hate to admit it, the mutt and the wolf would have supported them too. I would have been there as an uncle as well. But—I am alone, and…. My own father—he was…. he was not what I would call a good father, Professor."

Realising his slip was because he was feeling vulnerable; she turned around fully and though she was aware he was a little awkward with receiving physical affection, took his one hand in both of hers. "The very fact that you are worried, my dear boy, is what tells me you can do this. If you care enough to worry that you will get it right, then you will make a fine father." She let go of his hand and patted him on the shoulder. "And you are not alone, Severus. I will be there if you need me. I have no children of my own, as you know, but my nieces and nephews are just a touch older than you and I would be glad to be the same support for you as I am for them."

Never one good with emotion, Severus simply nodded curtly to hide the tear that was forming in the corner of his eye. Minerva nodded slightly in return and made her way determinedly up to the door, trusting that the young potions master would follow.

It was Vernon who answered the door, glancing around nervously, then ushering them in as if afraid the neighbours would see (which he probably was). When they made their way into the living area, Petunia let out a short gasp.

"You!" her eyes widened comically.

Severus sneered. "Yes. Me. Surprised?"

Petunia's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

"Did you miss me, Evans?"

She snapped her mouth shut as her husband answered for her, "It's Dursley to you."

"No," Snape mused quietly, remembering his childhood, "it will always be Evans to me."

The small Muggle toddler they had brought with them peeked out from behind Minerva's robes. They had told him he was going to finally meet his new mummy and daddy today and he peered curiously at the large man in the room. As Petunia caught sight of the little boy, a small smile appeared on her face.

"Is that him?" she whispered breathlessly.

Severus just barely refrained from rolling his eyes. "Obviously."

Petunia was undeterred. She held out her arms to the little boy and waved him forward. Vernon watched, then turned to Minerva presumptuously. "You're sure he's normal, then?"

Barely containing his rage, Severus bit down on his tongue as Minerva replied, "Yes, Dursley. I can assure you, this boy is no wizard."

The whale of a man nodded, "Good then."

Losing patience, Severus intoned coldly, "Where is _my_ boy, then you filthy—"

"Severus!" Severus shot Minerva a small glare, but corrected himself anyways, making sure to pronounce the two syllables of his name with as much disdain as he could muster (which, as you know, is quite a lot, actually).

"Where is my son, _Durs-ley_?"

The blond walrus snorted. "You'll not go poking about my house. And I'll not dirty my hands with the boy. You'll just have to—"

Before Severus could attack her husband (as she knew him well enough to know he might) Petunia finally looked up from where she now had the brown-haired toddler in her lap. "He's in the kitchen, Severus. I'll fetch him."

Minerva placed a restraining hand on Severus' forearm and he nodded at the blonde woman tersely.

Upon seeing the boy come stumbling in holding his aunt's hand, both Minerva and Severus eyes widened in concern. The boy, though average height for his age, was obviously underweight. His clothes were too big and looked worn out. His large green eyes, staring out from a sunken face were sad and as he and Petunia passed Vernon, the boy shot a gaunt, fearful look at his uncle as a whimper escaped his lips and he hid in the folds of his aunt's skirt as best he could. At this, Severus hand went instinctively to his wand and his eyes narrowed dangerously at the blond man.

Minerva again placed a restraining hand on his arm and intoned carefully, "It's all right, Severus, we're taking him home. We just need to cast the charm on his scar and we'll be on our way."

Vernon's eyes bulged. "Oh, no you're not! You will not do your silly little tricks under my roof. I'll not allow it."

Petunia turned to him and said, "Vernon, please take Harold upstairs to his new room and put him to bed. Then check on Dudley. I'll see them out."

"Petunia," he began, puffing out his chest and stepping forward menacingly, "their tricks are not welcome here and I'll not have—"

"Vernon," she said, a little more firmly, "Please."

Vernon huffed, but obeyed his wife nonetheless, picking up the brunet and heading upstairs. He made certain to glare at the witch and wizard on his way past.

Petunia watched him go, while the pair of professors watched her face. As soon as she was certain her husband was out of earshot, she turned an (surprisingly) apologetic and sympathetic stare on the professors. When she finally spoke, it was very softly.

"I know, Snape," she began, "that we have never seen eye-to-eye. And I'll not pretend I love the wizarding world." She looked up from where she'd been looking at Harry's small hand in her own and made eye contact with Severus. "But I realised, after my sister died…. that I was holding onto a hate for her that—that I shouldn't have. I did my best. It was hard, with Vernon, once the boy—once _Harry_ started showing signs of accidental magic like Lily had done." She pulled her hand forward, guiding the toddler more into the open. "But I tried."

Snape, not expecting any kind of apology for the state his son was in, nor the treatment he had obviously been afraid of from his uncle—particularly from a woman he had known to belittle others—namely himself, nodded his acceptance, albeit a little stiffly. Petunia let go of Harry's hand and he looked afraid for a moment, so it was obvious his aunt had been somewhat of a protector for him, which made Severus uncharacteristically vocal for a moment.

"Thank you, Petunia."

She nodded and headed towards the kitchen door. "I understand you'll have to place a charm on him before you leave, but…. I'd rather not be here for that. I'll just fetch his things from the kitchen."

Minerva nodded and as Petunia left the room quietly, she watched as Severus sat on the edge of the sofa and reached a hand out to the little boy. Harry looked at his hand questioningly, then up at Minerva and finally, towards the door where his aunt had disappeared. He turned back to Severus shyly.

"It's all right," Severus tried to soften his normally brusque voice as much as possible, "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to say hello."

Harry looked at him from wide green eyes, but didn't move an inch. "Hello."

Minerva held back a small chuckle. Severus sighed and tried again.

"Would you…. would you mind coming and sitting on my lap for a moment?"

Harry looked at him for a long moment, then silently shuffled over. He stopped right in front of Severus, but didn't make a move to sit with or even beside him and spoke. "No sofa."

"Yes, I'm on the sofa," Severus responded quietly, taking in the innocent face before him, "will you sit with me?"

Harry frowned and shook his head in what seemed to be frustration. "No. No so-fa." he pronounced each syllable purposefully.

Severus slowly (so as not to frighten him) took one of Harry's tiny hands in his own. "You don't want to sit on the sofa?"

Harry shook his head. "No. No-no. Harreee no-no sofa."

Severus sighed sadly as understanding dawned on him. "Harry's not allowed on the sofa?"

Harry nodded quickly. Severus picked him up carefully and sat him on his lap. "It's all right, Harry. I promise I will not let you get in trouble. You can sit with me on the sofa. Do you see that nice lady over there?" he pointed towards McGonagall. Harry nodded.

"She's going to come help me look at your forehead for a moment. Is that all right?"

Harry scrunched up his face, then tried to sound out a word. "Laay-dee."

Severus smiled. "Yes, the nice lady. Her name is Minerva. And I'm…."

Harry looked at him expectantly. Minerva piped up after a silence. She made her way over and crouched to be at Harry's level. "This is your daddy. And we are going to take you to your new home today. Would you like that?"

Harry looked back and forth between the two for a while, then asked, "Harreee's daddy?" he looked puzzled.

Minerva nodded. "Yes, wee one. Now, we're going to look at your forehead and it will feel warm, but we're not going to hurt you, all right?"

Harry nodded, so they quickly cast the charm to make the v appear. Harry scrunched up his face as he felt the warmth of the magic on his head. Petunia slipped in unobtrusively from the kitchen with what looked like a small fabric book bag, from where she had been waiting and watching from the corner of her eye. She handed the bag to McGonagall quickly and nodded to Snape as he stood with Harry in his arms.

She peered up towards the stairs, almost as if checking her husband wouldn't see, then leaned in nervously towards Severus to plant a very small kiss on her nephew's forehead. "Good-bye, Harry."

Harry looked puzzled again. "Bye Harreee?"

His aunt nodded. "You're going to go with your daddy now. You won't have to stay with Auntie Petunia or Uncle Vernon anymore."

Harry repeated after her, looking a bit disappointed, "No Aunteee Toon-yah?" She shook her head. Then he looked relieved as he added, "No Unc-a Vurr….," he tried again, "Vurr-vurr-nun?" She shook her head again. Harry smiled and reached out his two tiny hands on either side of her face.

For a moment, even her snobbish air fell and she smiled softly. "Take care, Harry."

Then, with a nod at both professors, she was gone upstairs.

"Well." Professor McGonagall straightened her robes. "We should be going then."

Severus buried his long nose in his son's hair and took a deep breath. "Yes, Professor. Let's."

And they disappeared with a little crack.


	3. The Boy Who Lived to Defy His Father

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This is a work of fanfiction made to resemble the original. I am making no profit from writing or sharing this._**

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 _Chapter One and two thirds:_ _The Boy Who Lived to Defy His Father or; The Boy Who Lived to Suffer the Worst Summer Vacation Ever_

"No."

"Yes."

"I'm not wearing them."

"You _will_ wear them."

"You can't make me."

"I _will_ make you."

"No."

"Yes."

"I said, no."

"Harry, at this point, it does not matter if you want to or not. You have my nose and if we do not want the headmaster to suspect, you will wear the glasses. They will make you look more like James."

"I don't want to."

Severus sighed. "I don't care."

Harry pouted.

In a monotone, "That will not work."

Harry stomped his foot.

"Put on the glasses, Harry."

"No."

"Yes."

"I don't like them."

"That does not matter."

"I don't need glasses."

"They are a disguise."

"They're uncomfortable."

"Professor McGonagall wears glasses and they do not bother her."

"I'm not Professor Nerva." (Harry couldn't pronounce Minerva when he was younger. The nickname had stuck—McGonagall was just glad he had stopped calling her Nerv _y_ by the time he was three and a half.)

"You will get used to them."

"No, I won't."

"You must."

"I won't because I won't wear them."

"You have no choice."

"They're ugly."

"You have never cared what you wear and they are just glasses."

"I—I'll lose them!" Harry decided triumphantly.

"I will summon them back." If he weren't a Slytherin, Severus would have rolled his eyes by now.

"I'll…. I'll—I'll _break_ them." Harry didn't sound sure, but he threatened it anyways.

"I will repair them."

"I'll just take them off when you're not looking, then." Harry frowned up at his cross father.

"I will cast a sticking charm on them. They will be stuck to your stubborn face."

"N—"

Severus cut him off abruptly, "Do _not_ start this again! You will wear the glasses."

Harry glared at his father, then turned and left the room.

"Harry James, I swear…."

Harry turned at the kitchen door and stuck his tongue out. "It's not nice to swear."

As Harry left to do goodness knows what upstairs (probably not what Severus had asked him to do, of course), Severus dropped the round, wire-framed glasses on the counter with a sigh. "You have your mother's temper, Harry." He looked Heavenwards. "I suppose, Lily, that you and James are having a laugh at my expense right now?"

He dropped onto one of the wooden kitchen chairs tiredly, propping his forehead into one hand, whose elbow rested on the table and taking a deep breath while counting to ten.

He recalled his firecall from Minerva that morning. It was already the first of June and he had been dreading the conversation since the school had begun prepping for the final summer term exams. Next school year, this very autumn, his son was going to be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and his colleague and friend (though he wouldn't admit it out loud…. preferably, ever) Professor Minerva McGonagall had insisted Harry spend the summer with his Aunt Petunia and her family to convince the Hogwarts magic that addressed the letters to students that Harry did, in fact (even though he really didn't), live at number four, Privet Drive.

 **Flashback….**

 _"_ _Severus, I understand, I do. I do not trust Vernon Dursley any further than I could throw him and Merlin knows I wouldn't even be able to pick that blubbering fool of a man up."_

 _"_ _Then do not make him go, Minerva!" In a rare display of emotion, Severus let his voice rise._

 _Minerva shook her head sadly, but sighed. "He is your son. You worry about him. I will not pretend, Severus, that I know what it is like to take care of a child of my own. But I love my students, you included, boy, and if it makes you feel any better, it pains me almost as much to watch a man I have grown to see as a son lose his own as it does you to let him go. But Severus." She paused and looked him directly in the eye, "It is only for a few months, and it is_ absolutely necessary. _"_

 _Severus sighed and stood from the grate where he was kneeling to speak. "I know."_

 _"_ _Good lad." Minerva nodded approvingly. "I shall be by at tea time to pick him up."_

 _Severus nodded tightly, looking away from the hearth. "I shall go tell him."_

 _Minerva's visage disappeared from the flames._

 **Present….**

Needless to say, his son had not taken the news well and he had been in a quasi-war with the boy all morning trying to get him to cooperate and just pack already. Though Harry was usually a very nice boy, he _did_ in fact, inherit his mother's temper—and was it a wicked one. As kind and respectful as he was 90% of the time, the other ten was spent aggravating his father to no end.

Severus decided to try again, one last time before Minerva arrived. He moved to the bottom of the stairs and called up, "Harry?"

Harry appeared at the landing, arms folded over his chest and looking rather putout. "I don't want to go, Dad."

"I know."

He uncrossed his arms, but still looked peevish. "Do I really have to?"

Severus nodded. Harry sighed and disappeared upstairs. He couldn't blame him, really. It's not as if Severus wanted to send him _there_ of all places anymore than he wanted to go. He would also miss his own son's birthday, something he hadn't done since he had turned two nearly nine years ago. It didn't help, either, that the boy still had an occasional nightmare about the place. He didn't have many solid memories of his Aunt's house (since he had been so young at the time), but he remembered the feelings and judging by his condition when Severus picked him up and his Aunt's own admission of her husband's treatment of her nephew through an apology, they hadn't been pleasant. The nightmares were few and far between, now, but when Harry had first arrived here as a toddler, they were a regular occurrence. Severus simply could not abide by sending him _back_ to them, for no matter how short of a time period. As Minerva had pointed out, though, they had expressly gone against Headmaster Dumbledore's wishes in pulling the boy from his Aunt's house to live with Severus and neither particularly relished the thought of the wizened old man finding out. Merrily twinkling eyes and obsession with sweets or not—he was downright dangerous.

Severus padded up the stairs noiselessly, approaching Harry's door as quietly as possible. As he pushed the door the rest of the way open, he could see the dark-haired boy curled up in a large armchair by the window. He was clutching a stuffed dragon (he had gotten it from Minerva the day they had picked him up, as a welcome home present. He had called it 'Toy' and would often rub its tummy to calm himself…. It was a good thing it was magically protected or he would have worn right through to the stuffing by now already) and he heaved a dreary sigh as Severus watched from the doorway.

"I'm not trying to be difficult."

Severus entered and sat on the end of the bed, just behind and to the left of the chair. "Then what is wrong?"

Harry glanced back, taking his eyes from the window. "I just…. _really_ don't want to go. Don't you ever just get a bad feeling about something, Dad?"

"Yes. Often enough."

"So, what do you do?"

"You do what needs to be done anyways."

Harry turned back to the window. "It figures. I was afraid you'd say that."

Severus chuckled humourlessly. "You have to try not to have any outbursts while you're there, Harry."

Harry worried his bottom lip. "What if I can't help it?"

Severus thought back (proudly, not that he'd admit that) to all of the bursts of accidental magic his son had shown, even at a very young age. He sighed and spoke, "Your Aunt and Uncle are Muggles, you remember that, right?"

"Yes."

"They are not the sort that appreciate magic, Harry. I know you do not have much control over your magic yet, but you need to try. I do not believe they would react well to any…. surprises."

Harry sighed. "This summer is going to be _hard_."

"For you and me both."

Harry glanced up when his father stood. "You're going to be all alone." He frowned.

Severus patted him on the head as he left. "I have spent most of my life alone. I will be fine. You worry about you."

Harry's frowned deepened, but Severus didn't notice and Harry didn't push the issue.

…...0.0.0…

Minerva knocked politely on the door at quarter after three, just in time to sit down with Harry and Severus for afternoon tea. As Severus answered the door and led her into the kitchen, she observed Harry sitting at a counter stool playing with a pair of glasses. He did not look happy.

"Good afternoon, Mr Potter."

He looked up dejectedly. "Hi, Professor."

"Is something the matter?"

Severus snorted from where he was magically directing plates onto the table. Harry glared at him, then turned to McGonagall and sighed, "Dad thinks I need to wear these glasses to hide my nose."

Minerva turned to Severus. "To hide his nose? What on Earth—"

Severus sighed. "Harry, put on the glasses to show Professor McGonagall."

As Minerva watched, the boy grumpily pushed the glasses up onto his face. "There."

"Oh." She nodded slightly. "I can see why you want him to wear them, Severus. Without them, he looks more like you. They are the same style as James' were in school, aren't they?"

"I remember well, Minerva. That is why I chose them. People will only see what they wish to see. They will only look at the surface."

"Yes." Minerva nodded. "It's a good idea."

Harry banged his head down on the table and groaned. "Who cares if I look like my Dad? _Why_ does it even _matter_? You said Dumbledore wanted me to stay with my aunt, not that he wanted me to look like my other dad. I'm sure I'll not be the only boy with a longish nose!"

Minerva chuckled. "You need to trust us on this one, lad. Dumbledore is a very smart man. If he thinks you have been staying with your father instead of the Dursleys, he may make you go back for more than just the summer."

Harry crossed his arms. "What has that got to do with glasses?"

Severus interrupted. "He never knew I was your biological father, Harry. He really thought you were James son and James son only. Before I searched for you, I asked after you from Dumbledore. He is sure to remember how insistent I was and if there are any other obvious connections, then he will surely piece together the entire story."

Harry sighed. _This is going to be a long summer._

…...0.0.0…

As soon as they arrived in Privet Drive, Harry was pretty sure he wouldn't like it there. Professor McGonagall led him down the street towards number four and all he could think about was how everything looked the same. Harry knew he didn't get out much; his dad seemed a little paranoid when they were out in public, but he _did_ know that he liked the messy, unkempt garden in their backyard (his father let him have a corner to plant whatever he wanted—the rest was just herbs and other stinky plants his dad used for potions and a large square of plain grass with a tree planted in the middle) and much preferred the colourful flower beds at the park to these plain, well-manicured but all-the-same lawns with hedges of all the same bush, cut to all the same height. He sighed and hefted his bag further up his shoulder as he followed the Professor.

He looked around and didn't see many neighbours, either. There weren't any kids outside playing and no dogs barking in the background. As they walked up the drive to number four, Harry could hear a Muggle television blaring in the house (he had seen them in the neighbours houses, but his father hadn't owned one until he'd given in and allowed Harry a small one in their living area only last year for Christmas; so for the past six months he had been allowed to watch one program each day from the few channels they had).

Minerva raised her hand to knock and Harry shifted nervously from foot to foot behind her. His glasses were perched on his nose and he kept rubbing at them in irritation. As her knock sounded through the house, they heard voices speak from the living room window.

"Oi, Mum! Someone's at the door!"

"Could one of you answer it, boys?" came from further in the house, presumably the kitchen.

"But we don't _want to_! 'Byker Grove' is almost finished!"

"And 'Fun House' comes on next!"

About a minute later, an older version of the woman Minerva remembered as Petunia answered the door, flustered and drying her sudsy hands on an apron. When she looked up, her face formed a surprised, 'oh.'

"Good afternoon, Mrs Dursley."

"Err…. Good afternoon."

"I hope you remember our arrangement?"

Petunia nodded and glanced at Harry. It took her a moment, but after a beat, she replied, "Yes. Yes—do come in."

Minerva nodded and followed her in, ushering Harry beside her.

"Not that I'm complaining, but Snape isn't dropping him off?"

Minerva raised an eyebrow at the question. "Given your history, I think you would agree with my thought that that would not have been prudent?"

Petunia wrung her hands. "Ah—yes. Yes, that makes sense." She gestured towards the living room and murmured, "Vernon is at work. We should get you settled before he arrives to avoid any problems."

As they entered the living area, two boys looked up at them from the sofa. Minerva recognised one immediately as Dudley, the blond toddler who screamed for sweets. The boy had grown up rather rotund, though not as severely as his father and he was wearing a scowl, obviously not amused that his telly time was being interrupted. The other boy, she assumed must have been the Harry-doppelganger that the Dursleys had adopted, had a puzzled look on his face, as if he couldn't understand why such an oddly dressed woman was in his living room, of all places. He was slightly taller and slimmer than Dudley, though still obviously heavier than Harry himself. His hair was left a bit longer than the blond's, presumably to cover the mark that imitated Harry's scar. Both were wearing tan slacks and jumpers despite the summer weather.

Petunia clasped her hands in front of her and shot a quick glance at Minerva and Harry before addressing the boys. "Do you remember what mummy said about having a visitor for the summer?"

Both boys narrowed their eyes a bit. The brunet replied, "Yes?"

She waved a hand vaguely in Harry's direction. "This, boys, is your cousin Harry. Say hello. This, Harry, is Dudley and Harold."

The boys nodded but didn't move from the couch. Harry mumbled a quiet, "Hello. Hi," with a nod in each of their directions.

"Is he named after me?" the brunet asked, making it obvious to the professor that the boys had not been told any of the story.

"Um, no." Petunia smiled at them. "I suppose it was just a coincidence."

The boy nodded and turned back to the telly when Dudley nudged him.

Petunia nodded and went back to the kitchen, Minerva and Harry following. Once out of earshot of her own children, she turned fully to Harry and spoke. "You cannot, under any circumstances, use magic in the house. Especially not in front of your uncle or the boys. He was…. not happy that you would have to be coming back. He didn't realise it would be for nearly three months. He thought it would be for a week or two at most. Stay out of the way and things should be fine. The boys don't know that you're any…. different than they are. I hope it will stay that way." her voice rose at the end, making her statement into more of a question.

Harry nodded and answered politely, "I can't use magic yet, I'm not allowed."

Petunia wrung her hands. "Oh. Oh, right then. Well. I just thought…. I mean Lily…. by the time she was eight or nine…."

McGonagall interrupted, "Harry has had accidental outbursts of magic since he was far smaller than your sister, as you will remember from when he was just a wee one here." Petunia nodded as the professor continued, "The instances of his magic acting out have decreased in frequency as he has gotten older. They should only occur if he is in a state of emotional or physical distress."

Petunia nodded again. "Yes. Well. That's good then, I suppose. You're sure it's only for a few months that he has to stay here?"

It was Minerva's turn to nod as she responded, "Quite sure. As I explained to you originally, he only needs to remain with you every now and then to make sure that the…." McGonagall had never told them the whole story and tried not to mention it had anything to do with Hogwarts, as she knew that was a sore subject. "The protection he has from his mother—your blood relative—is still there. He needs to spend time around you, specifically, as his last blood relative, and Dudley too I suppose." Minerva had previously told them (again, not wanting to mention Hogwarts) that it would wear off in a decade or so, so that she could bring him back before he was due to receive his Hogwarts letter without raising their ire. She also told them that as he had spent nearly a year with them as a toddler, but would only spend the summer this year, that he may need to return for a few summers. Though they were not happy about it, they had agreed it would be better than keeping Harry permanently. She also knew that while Vernon would like to remain in denial, Petunia knew that Harry would most likely receive a letter—though she wasn't certain if the woman knew it would come while he was with them. Minerva hoped the blonde would have the sense to hide the letter from her husband.

Petunia nodded at Harry's bag. "You can put that away now. I'll show you where."

Minerva turned to Harry and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I should be going now. I will see you again soon, Mr Potter."

Harry nodded, smiled at her and turned to his aunt. "All right. I'm ready as I'll ever be."

Minerva disappeared with a little pop.

…...0.0.0…

Harry had only been staying with his relatives for two days before calamity broke loose and everything went down the drain. Harold, who was a couple of months older than Harry himself, was turning eleven on June 3rd. His parents (whom Harry had quickly learned spoiled their children rotten) were planning a birthday celebration at the cinema. Harry, though he had mostly been ignored by his extended family, was excited to go nonetheless, as he had never been to the cinema before. He had never even seen a movie—only short half hour programs on his small new television.

Before they left, his aunt reminded him to be on his best behaviour many times and his uncle even got right up into his face, holding his collar and growling menacingly, "No funny business."

Harry had nodded vigorously. It wasn't as if he ever _planned_ his accidental magic…. it just, sort of _happened_.

When they arrived at the lobby of the cinema, Harry met his cousins' best friends, Piers Polkiss and Kyle O'Harrington. Piers seemed, in Harry's opinion (though he wisely kept it to himself) almost as dumb and bumbling as his cousin Dudley. The mean-looking boy also followed whatever Dudley was doing without question. Kyle, though quiet, seemed a lot nicer than both his cousins and Piers. He stayed near Harold, but didn't act like a puppet or a henchman. Kyle had reddish brown hair and was small for their age, about Harry's own size. As the friends' parents left from dropping them off, Harry smiled shyly at him, figuring he was his best bet for conversation in their company.

His aunt and uncle bought tickets for a later show, so that they could go to the restaurant next door for a light lunch and birthday cake before it started. They were going to see 'Terminator 2,' which sounded violent to Harry (and judging by Kyle's face, him too), but Harold was allowed to choose whatever he wanted and his brother had whined and wheedled at him until he gave in.

Lunch was fairly uneventful, but the movie was an entirely different matter. Near the end, a loud explosion caused Harry to startle, jumping in his seat and unfortunately for him—giving off a burst of accidental magic in the form of a small explosion to the cinema screen, effectively cutting off the movie and forcing the fire alarms on to evacuate the building. Harry was pretty sure it had been him—and judging by the purpling face of his uncle and the pursed lips and worried eyes of his aunt—he wasn't the only one who thought that.

A. N. Hi! I picked the nose as the feature to disguise with the glasses as a nod to the movie. I mean, if you really look at the characters, the actor who plays Harry looks nothing like the actor who portrays James, though he does eventually grow up to have a longish nose that looks like it may have even been broken at one point—which is far more similar to Snape's nose. Plus it gave me the excuse to make him wear the glasses. I used the fact that Severus would be afraid of Dumbledore catching them to explain Harry's sheltered nature (because in the books he's very sheltered in year one)—it's not quite as severe as it was in the books, but it is what it is.

P. S. I am sooo glad that FF . net is back up! I was seriously going through withdrawal symptoms those two days when I couldn't login.

Oh, and Kyle is partly based on an old colleague of mine. She was a she—her name was Kyla, but they have similar physical and psychological traits. His personality (minus the fear and with more protectiveness) is also the kind of best friend I wish I'd had growing up with an abusive mum; the kind of big sister I ended up being because of that childhood. :)


	4. The Vanishing then Reappearing Glass

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This is a work of fanfiction made to resemble the original. I am making no profit from writing or sharing this._**

 ** _Warnings: Vernon smacks Harry about at the beginning of this chapter—I grew up in an abusive home, and I would_** **never** ** _treat a child like that—but it's still tame as far as abuse goes in my opinion. However, I know some people are more sheltered and/or more offended (read: get the squicks) from any of that stuff so if that's you just skip the first four paragraphs._**

A.N. I know —had to write it like that, they don't even let their own website be written (as evidenced by the botched note last time when it deleted their address)—does not approve of 'hot off the press,' but I hope my writing isn't riddled with too many errors, as I did major in English—but if the mistakes are still there it's due to the fact that I don't have a beta (post-sharing constructive criticism in reviews is all I do—I'm not the type to ask people to proofread anything—never was: not in school, not at work and since I want the story to be mine, I don't think I'd much listen to a beta anyways, but…. whatevs) so the booboos are all mine because that's just my writing process—everyone's is different and this is what I have found after trial and error to work best for me.

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 _Chapter Two:_ _The Vanishing (for a Second, then Reappearing) Glass_

His uncle obviously waited until they were home to say anything, but when they got there, he practically pounced on Harry. Aunt Petunia, who obviously wasn't new to Vernon's bursts of temper and who also didn't want her 'innocent babies' to know her nephew was a wizard, had ushered the two boys up to their room to watch the telly up there as soon as they got home.

Vernon cuffed him round the head so hard that Harry stumbled into the entry hall's wall, nearly knocking down the umbrella stand. Petunia let out a squeak of surprise, and reached a hand out to him—but pulled it back and backed up to the far doorway when she caught sight of the glare her husband had fixed the boy with. Harry, beyond surprised, because he hadn't _ever_ been disciplined physically by his father (though he occasionally got super boring tasks like cleaning out the cauldrons when he was naughty enough) raised his hands to protect his head. Vernon grabbed him by the wrists and hauled him face-to-face.

He spewed venomously right into Harry's face, "Now, you listen to me, boy. I don't ever want to see your ridiculous magic tricks again, do you understand? If I do, you don't even want to know the consequences! I _will_ stomp this unnaturalness out of you—no matter how I have to do it." He nodded to himself.

The blubbery, red-faced man raised his hand again and when Harry flinched and backed up as far as he could in his uncle's grasp, the man lifted his hand a few inches, then dropped Harry roughly on the floor, where he crumpled by the doorjamb.

When Vernon stormed between them to the living room, Petunia shot Harry a glance, but decided to follow her husband, asking in a clipped tone, "A brandy, Vernon?"

Harry heard his uncle reply, "Three fingers, Petunia." (Sounds it, but so not dirty—it's an informal measure of alcohol.)

Harry then heard the clinking of glass as his aunt got the drink and the blare from the telly as Vernon turned it on. He knew he should probably move, but he couldn't make himself. Instead, he shuffled his bum on the floor, scooting partway into the coat closet and leaving only his feet sticking out. He figured he'd pull them in if his uncle came looking for him.

It wasn't until after dinner, when the rest of the household had already gone to bed that Harry's aunt came looking for him. She shoved the coats aside and said in a tight voice, "Up. Now."

He nodded and stood, then followed her meekly as she led the way to the kitchen. Once he got there, she plonked down a plate with a peanut-butter sandwich on it down in front of him, and pushed a glass of apple juice towards him, sloshing it a bit on the counter. As he looked up at her, she intoned coldly, "Don't expect any help next time if you let your magic go again. I'll not get into fights just to protect you. This is the one and only time I'll help you, so make sure your—just make sure that you don't act up again."

He nodded quickly and grabbed the sandwich—looking at the clock, he saw it was already ten thirty at night, later than his dad ever let him stay up and a good nine plus hours since he'd last eaten. Once he'd polished off the sandwich quickly and gulped the apple juice, his aunt continued speaking.

"Your uncle is very angry. You'll not be staying on the couch anymore, and you'll be starting chores first thing in the morning to earn your keep. You won't be eating until you finish your chores on time and without mistakes. There will be no more lazing around for you and no watching the telly with your cousins—you'll be weeding the garden in the afternoons and you will help with the cooking if you want to eat." She placed the plate and glass in the sink.

"Where will I be sleeping?"

His aunt stalked off and Harry followed. What he saw where she stopped made his mouth drop open. "In—in the cupboard?"

His aunt pursed her lips. "Be grateful, boy. Vernon wanted to throw you out completely."

With that, she huffed her way upstairs, leaving Harry to crawl onto the dirty little mattress on the closet floor and pull the door shut behind him. He had never felt so degraded in his life.

…...0.0.0…

A little over three weeks later, almost four, Harry looked back on his time with his family and felt humiliated and despondent. At first, he had bunked on the couch in the living room, with a blanket and pillow. Now, he was stuck in his cupboard under the stairs every night and lay on the dirty mattress with no bedding at all. Before, he had been allowed to go to Harold's birthday. Now, when the family ate out every Friday, he had been sent to the weird neighbour's, Mrs Figg. His cousins had mostly ignored Harry when he arrived. Now, Dudley had taken his father's lead and bullied Harry to no end. When they were out of his parents' sight, it got even worse and Dudley would leave bruises all over Harry's front from using him as a punching bag. Harold, at least, never hit him—but he always joined in Dudley's teasing…. they called him a freak, a weirdo, all the names Vernon called him and 'his lot.' When he first got there, Harry had been ignored and left to his own devices, he was even allowed to wander the neighbourhood; but now he was expected to complete a long list of chores every day, including hard, laborious tasks just to 'earn his keep' so that he could eat (never mind that he _knew_ his dad was paying them to have him over—and more than they would have spent on him even had everything stayed as it was at the beginning). And all of this because of one mistake—one burst of magic that Harry couldn't even _control._ Any time he thought about it, he wanted to burst into tears (but he wouldn't—he'd never seen his father cry, so he had decided that he wouldn't either). Sometimes, if Harry was lucky enough to finish his chores early, he was still allowed to walk around the neighbourhood, but now he had to watch out, because Dudley's gang of stupid friends were always looking to wail on him. Sometimes, Kyle would be around and help him hide—but on days that he was on his own, he'd not only have to endure their chasing, name-calling, spitting and kicking, but then when he went back to the Dursleys, _he'd_ be the one to get in trouble for his dusty clothes, even though Dudley was usually the one to push him in the dirt in the first place.

On top of all that, he had to listen to his aunt go on all day about how wonderful her 'sweet little babies' were, since it was always her Harry was doing chores with. She would point out all of the pictures (ugly ones, in Harry's opinion) of the boys and tell stories to go with them. Some days, Harry wondered if his aunt had a split personality. One second, she'd be staring at him wistfully, and the next she'd be telling him how right Vernon was and how they were doing him a favour by not encouraging his 'freakishness.' After the cinema incident, Harry had also noticed that his uncle Vernon had taken some of his things—he no longer had his letter writing materials in his bag anymore (his dad, being the son of a Muggle, was familiar with Muggle post and had asked Harry to write him at least once a month—though he preferred owling, even Severus knew that would be pushing the Dursley's limits too far). The small bag of candy he'd brought with him had also disappeared (but he knew where that had gone, as he'd seen Vernon eating it himself) and his stuffed dragon was nowhere to be found, until he'd seen Harold and Dudley dangling Toy over the toilet and threatening Harry that they'd flush him. It was lucky for him that his aunt Petunia had been in a goodish mood that day and had told the boys not to play with Harry because he had work to do. She'd shooed them off to watch the telly while Harry had been able to quickly rescue Toy from the bathroom floor before continuing his chores.

Harry had also had the _pleasure_ of meeting his uncle's sister, Marge, who was an even worse person than Vernon was. She insisted that James Potter was a good-for-nothing layabout and that Lily had been nothing more that a common wench. Harry was forced to wait on her hand and foot when she came over every Sunday for Sunday roast and she made sure to knock him on the head every time he'd walk by her. She also made a show of bringing sweets for Dudley and Harold and then telling Harry they were much too good for an awful boy like him. She only ever called him 'the boy,' even when she was talking directly to him (though the only time she did that was to tell him bad things about Lily, James and himself—he supposed 'boy' was better than 'freak' anyhow, which was all Vernon ever called him nowadays).

By June 22nd, Harry had almost forgotten what it was like to feel normal, or loved and he missed his father terribly (even though his father wasn't the touchy-feely type, at least Harry knew he cared…. and being holed up in their cottage-like home because his dad was a little paranoid of Dumbledore didn't seem so bad now after all the work and bullying he'd suffered in comparison here). At night, he'd lie awake and wait until he was sure that the Dursleys were all asleep before sneaking into the kitchen to get some food. Harry, who had always thought he was rather a well-behaved kid most of the time, had been reduced to feeling like a petty criminal just so that he could survive.

…...0.0.0…

Harry Potter was still there the next morning (much to his own chagrin), blessedly asleep (because he _hurt_ everywhere when he was awake)—though not for long. Harry's Aunt Petunia was the first one awake and bustling about (and it was obviously one of her evil-personality days, because it was her awful screeching that was slowly breaking into Harry's slumber) and her shrill call echoed through Harry's new 'bedroom.'

"Up!"

Harry woke with a jostle, nearly tumbling off his worn mattress and straight onto the freezing floor. "I said up!"

As he began to curl and uncurl his toes and fingers to get some feeling back in the cold digits, he heard her walking into the kitchen and getting the frying pan down to place on the cooker. As he stretched some feeling back into his cramped limbs, he tried to recall the dream he'd been having. It wasn't one of the nightmares his dad would wake him from, no; this was a more pleasant—but odd—dream. He thought perhaps it had been about a flying motorbike and weirdly enough, he thought perhaps he'd dreamt of this before (though he couldn't quite remember. He'd have to ask his dad about it later—that is, if he ever got out of this rotten hole and saw him again—sometimes he felt as if he never would).

Harry had no more time to think, though, as his aunt was back outside the door.

"Hurry. I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, boy, we'll not have a repeat of the disaster you made of Harold's special day. I want everything perfect for my precious little Duddy."

Harry groaned inwardly (even after only a month, he knew better than to do it out loud—that would only earn him more punishment) and rolled his eyes (his father did not approve of eye-rolling on principle, but Harry figured as a general rule that he was allowed to do whatever he wanted to express his distaste for his extended family, since they were just plain rotten).

Of course Harry hadn't forgotten Dudley's birthday, after all, his cousins had only been talking about it nonstop (when their mouths weren't busy bad-mouthing Harry, that is) since Harold's birthday. He slowly worked himself up from the dingy mattress (because moving any faster would aggravate his various aches and pains) and rooted around the cupboard for a pair of socks. Once he found a pair, he had to coax a spider off of them—after a month in the cupboard, Harry was used to spiders now (and he would just shoo them gently away or maybe try to free them outside, since he knew that if the rest of his family saw them, they'd squish them for sure)—because the small closet under the stairs was simply full of the tiny creatures.

Once dressed, Harry made his way silently down the hall and into the kitchen, where once again, the table was liberally covered (yes, liberally—not literally—that's not a type-o) in gifts. For some unfathomable reason, Dudley had been asking after a racing bike like in his and Harold's favourite programme on the telly, 'Byker Grove.' (Goodness only knows why though, the lazy sod rarely moved from the couch—he hated any form of physical exertion save for when he'd been practising his boxing skills on Harry himself; whenever he could catch him—he hadn't had much luck after the first week—Harry might make mistakes like everyone else, but like his father, he prided himself on not making the same one twice—and he was wicked fast. If he was out in the neighbourhood, Dudley and his gang had a very hard time catching him and only managed it because they outnumbered him—it was in the cramped house that had no hiding places and small hallways that Harry had the most trouble evading his bully of a cousin—but not for lack of effort or skill…. there was just not enough room to properly run.)

Harry, like his dad before him, was a bit on the small side for a child his age and the last month of physical over-exertion (his uncle had made him trim the grass with hand-held pruning shears as a punishment), coupled with his lack of food had definitely not helped. Where he had been slender before, he was now downright scrawny. In a fit of rage, (the day after Harold's birthday) his uncle Vernon had seen fit to take Harry's small rucksack and burn it along with the few Muggle clothes his father had purchased him to blend in. Now, Harry was stuck wearing Dudley and Harold's hand-me-downs. Not only was everything far too big (Harold was rather tall, and slightly pudgy—though nowhere near as bulky as his blond brother—who was almost literally four times Harry's size), but even Harry, who had never been picky about fashion—had to admit that the Dursleys' clothing choices were obscene assaults on any poor onlooker's vision, based on colour alone—never mind the clashing patterns.

Harry's small face was paler now and the glasses his father had argued him into wearing had been broken nearly in half when Vernon had boxed him round the ears a week ago. In one of her rare 'helpful and not-as-mean' moods, Harry's Aunt Petunia had given him some Sellotape to try and put them back together. The result was not pretty. It almost made Harry long for the glasses exactly the way his father had first given them to him, despite what his rather vehement protests had been at the time. His lighting-bolt shaped scar (now minus the v, since he was away from his home) stood out more starkly against his skin. Harold had been interested in it as soon as he saw it and told Harry his nearly-identical one had been gotten in the car crash that had killed his biological parents, though he also shared (in a rare moment of friendliness—perhaps he had his adoptive mother's split personality disorder?), while his father and brother were out of earshot, obviously; that he really liked his scar, but his mum and especially his dad didn't like any questions about the past. They also didn't like it when Harold had started asking even more questions lately (since Harry had arrived, really—and Vernon took it out on Harry, because really, what else would he do?), like why his and Harry's names were so similar, why they had matching scars, why was he here all of a sudden and why had their parents seemed to die around the same time? Were they the brothers and Dudley only his cousin, he would wonder aloud (and then get reprimanded for—though he'd never actually be _punished_ like Harry), because they looked more alike. He asked Harry (again, out of earshot of the rest of the family) where he'd gotten _his_ scar and if he knew if they weren't really family and was Harry certain his dad was actually his dad, because they did look an awful lot more alike than they looked to the rest of the Dursleys? Harry didn't know how to respond, not only because his dad had told him to try not to share personal details, but because he didn't want his uncle to be angry with whatever he told Harold—so Harry had avoided Harold even more than he did Dudley and the brunet was not much pleased with that, which translated to even more name calling and (though he hadn't been violent before the questions) a few light shoves here and there. They both knew the unspoken Dursley rule: 'Don't ask questions.' For Harold, it just meant unsatiated curiosity. For Harry (who had once dared ask Aunt Petunia about how his mother had been as a little girl—he'd even waited to do it on one of her good days—but it didn't matter, she had shut down completely and immediately), it meant extra chores and less 'privileges' (not that he had many to begin with). Harry was smart though, and wanted the rest of his stay with his extended family to go as quietly and smoothly as possible, so he hadn't ever tried asking again—good or bad days.

Vernon finally deigned the kitchen with his presence.

"Didn't you comb your hair, freak? The least you could do is try to look presentable in my house. Your hair looks like a demented hedgehog! One day we'll have to cut it off, won't we boy, if you're not going to take care of it. Can't send you back to your father looking _uncared for_ , now can we?"

Harry thought back to his dad and his haircuts (it seemed so long ago already). Severus insisted it be cut every now and then to keep it looking, 'respectable,' (read, neat), but it had never been any use. Harry's hair just went all over the place and it grew like weeds. His dad himself had long hair of the same ebony, but it hung tamely around his shoulders. Severus often griped it must be because of Lily's waves (akin to loose curls) that Harry's hair was as maddeningly unruly as it was. However, his dad had eventually given up and just had Minerva trim it with a charm every half a year (he had tried it himself once, but he was a potions master, dammit, not a charms one and the spell had chopped Harry's hair haphazardly and made it look messier than ever—luckily it had grown back overnight—the one time ever that Harry had been grateful for his uncontrollable accidental magic). Honestly, there had been a year (Harry vaguely remembered he was around five) when he had his hair cut by a professional barber nearly every two weeks—Severus had even tried a Muggle barber (who was extremely puzzled as to how it always grew back so fast), but had eventually decided to trust only McGonagall's spell work with his son's hair.

In response (because Vernon always expected one or he'd sneer and insult Harry further—and it had better be polite unless Harry wanted his ears boxed—even though he'd only grunt at whatever Harry said and not really listen at all), Harry answered, "I'll be sure to take care of it, _sir_." Harry made sure to pump as much sarcasm as he could into the 'sir', but Vernon, dull as he was, simply took it for a title of respect.

Harry had already moved onto frying the eggs (because good things happened when he worked pre-emptively, he'd figured out, as his aunt was always nicer if he did what she wanted before she'd even have to ask) by the time his cousins arrived in the kitchen. Harold came in first, hair still wet (Harry was a little jealous, _he_ was only allowed a shower every second or third day—no matter how much he would sweat in the garden, while he knew his cousins, Harold in particular, took long, hot showers). Harry hadn't felt clean in a month. Dudley, looking so much like Uncle Vernon that Harry shuddered at the future of his cousin's looks came in next. Once, his Aunt Petunia had claimed Dudley was 'positively cherubic.' It was all Harry could do not to gag and laugh—he was more of the opinion that Dudley looked like a pig with a badly combed-over toupee.

As the boys greedily poured themselves milk and juice, each grabbing multiple scones and cinnamon buns (Harry never got any of those, they were always gone down his cousins' greedy gullets), Harry put the plates of egg and bacon down on what little room there was left on the table. The rest of the table was covered in the gifts and Harry was surprised the legs weren't buckling under the weight.

Dudley was counting his presents as Harry grabbed an egg quickly before his uncle noticed. He'd gotten good at sneaking food lately. The blond looked like he was having trouble making it past twenty.

"Thirty-eight, D," Harold responded, noticing Harry trying to grab a piece of toast and knocking the plate just out of his reach.

Dudley grabbed the nearest box. "Is that more than last year?"

Vernon guffawed, "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like me!" He chortled again, "Good boy, Dudley."

Harry really wanted to roll his eyes again. He barely concealed his anger at his uncle getting 'his money's worth' from keeping him here, caged like an animal while his father paid them handsomely.

While Dudley was ripping off the wrapping from his gifts and throwing it every which way (Harry groaned inwardly again, it would obviously be him cleaning that up) and Harold picked up the gifts after Dudley was done exclaiming over them to look at what his brother had gotten, the phone rang. Harry got that sinking feeling he'd had when his dad had first told him to pack.

Petunia was on the phone in the other room for several minutes as Dudley unwrapped a litany of gifts; the wastefulness almost made Harry sick—because he'd _seen_ the collection of stuff that Dudley and Harold already had and they certainly didn't need more of it just to throw away (which is what they'd do when they got tired of something, Harry had already noticed).

His aunt came back in with a frown on her face. She held the cordless close to her shoulder. She glanced at Dudley opening gifts. "Mrs Figg has a broken leg. She won't be able to take _him_." She jerked a thumb in Harry's direction.

Harold sat up straighter, and Dudley's mouth fell open comically. Harry felt a glimmer of hope rise in his chest. Since his dad was so paranoid (and not very fond of Muggles, despite having grown up as one himself), Harry knew he was rather sheltered and since his awful last few weeks here, he would give anything to be able to get out in the world again. If only to stay away from Mrs Figg's. Harry wasn't trying to be cruel, really, but he couldn't help but hate being at her house. She was a kind person, on principle, but dismally oblivious. The older lady lived two houses away from the Dursleys and her whole house smelled like cat pee. Each of the Fridays he'd been there, she'd made him look at all the pictures of all the cats she'd ever owned (and there were a lot of them)—even though the Fridays had only been a week apart each and despite Harry assuring her that really, it was fine, he wasn't that bored. Although, one of the cats had looked eerily like the Kneazles he saw in some of his dad's books and he'd said so. As it turns out, Mrs Figg was a Squib—and then she'd launched into sad tales of how she'd tried to convince Dumbledore to let her work in the castle and Harry had immediately felt like he had to be on guard around her—as his father did not fully trust Dumbledore and said he had spies everywhere (Harry knew he was a little paranoid, but he loved him anyways). She sounded wistful and flighty when talking about Dumbledore and if she was that blindly devoted to the old headmaster, even after he'd refused her a job—how could Harry and his dad trust her?

"So what do we do?" Petunia looked at him in consternation (Harry doubted his family knew what that word meant, but _he_ did, and he thought it described her well right in that moment). Harold (probably recalling his birthday and feeling mad since Vernon had blamed it all on Harry) glared at the smaller boy as if it were his fault. Harry felt bad for Mrs Figg, but relieved as well, since he wouldn't have to go there this week at least.

Harry cleared his throat and piped up in as small a voice as he could muster (he was getting to be a rather good actor, if he said so himself), "You could…." he tried to shrink himself into his seat and look helpless, "leave me here?"

His uncle snorted rudely and his aunt looked like she'd chewed on a lemon wedge.

"And come back to a house in ruin?"

"It's not like I'll hurt the house," Harry began carefully, but they weren't listening at all.

"How about…. how about…." it looked to Harry like his uncle only had half a brain to work with, "that friend of yours, er—what's-her-name? Yvette?"

"Yvonne. And she's on holiday in Bora Bora."

"How about we ask Marge?" Vernon huffed, obviously miffed at running out of viable (another good word, Harry was quite intelligent despite, apparently, being related to Dudley the counter-of-presents-on fingers and toes) options.

His wife gave him a WTF look and answered, "Don't be ridiculous, Vernon, you know she hates the boy."

"We might have to just bring him to the zoo," his aunt continued slowly, "but we could leave him in the car." By now, Harry was used to be spoken of as if he weren't in the room, as if he were just some bug on his family's shoe.

"I just got that car brand new, Petunia, " his uncle whinged like a small, petulant child, "he's not sitting in it alone!"

It had taken Dudley's small brain this long to catch up after listening to his parents, but now that it had, he began howling (because his parents, particularly his mum—Harry had noticed, gave in to whatever the boys wanted if only they threw a fit).

Aunt Petunia dropped the phone on the table and fluttered her hands around Dudley before throwing her arms about him dramatically, "Oh, don't cry, my baby Dinky Duddydums! Mummy won't let him spoil your special day like Harold's!" Harry could see Harold smirking at him from the corner of his eye, as the brunet gave Dudley a discrete thumbs up.

This seemed to encourage the blond, as he stepped it up with heaving, fake sobs, spluttering out, "I…. don't…. want…. h-him….t-t-to c-come! H-he sp-spoiled Harold's birthday and h-he'll r-r-ruin everything!" The large boy shot Harry a nasty grin behind his mother's back and nodded a wink at Harold (it looked more like he had something in his eyes to Harry—but then, the blond wasn't very coordinated).

It was then that their little scene was interrupted by the doorbell ringing. Since the drive to the zoo was longer than to the cinema, their parents would be dropping Piers and Kyle off here and they'd all be going in one vehicle.

"Oh, no, they're here!" Petunia scrambled frantically off Dudley and towards the entrance and a minute later returned with Piers and his mother. As Harry took in the sight of the mean boy again—he looked like a hairless rat—and Harry disliked him the most out of all of Dudley's gang because he was the slimmest and fastest and usually the one that had the best chance of catching Harry. Dudley ceased his wailing. Harry snickered inwardly (again, he didn't have a death wish…. really, who would go asking for it in this house?).

As soon as Piers' mother left, Harry was instructed to quickly tidy the kitchen. He worked efficiently and by the time Kyle showed up ten minutes later, the wrapping had all been thrown out and he'd filled the dishwasher. Another half an hour later, Harry was squished into the back seat of his Aunt's new mini-van beside Kyle (with Harold on the other side of the auburn-haired boy). They wouldn't be taking his uncle's car (new as well and even bigger than his old one—but Harry wouldn't know that, even though you do, since it's already been established Vernon has a fondness for…. big things…. to, you know…. make up for…. small things). Because Piers had arrived earlier than they'd asked him to come, Harry's aunt and uncle hadn't managed to think of anything else to do with him other than let him tag along, but Vernon had made sure to speak to Harry alone before they left.

He'd taken him aside and got right into his face, "I won't warn you more than once, boy. No freaky business or you'll not see the outside of that cupboard or a scrap of food until your miserable father comes calling for you."

"I'm not going to do anything wrong." Harry asserted firmly (not that that meant anything as far as his extended family was concerned).

Uncle Vernon shook his head (and his fist) and Harry just knew he didn't believe him. Harry wasn't an idiot—even before his dad had explained magic to him, he'd known they were different than their neighbours. After all, when he was four and his babysitter from down the road had tried to dress him up as a girl (she apparently, really, _really_ wanted a little sister and, 'Harry, with your gorgeous eyes, you'll look so cute, sweetie pie!' she'd giggled) and the dress had seemed to shrink in her hands, he started to wonder (that babysitter hadn't ever been re-hired and later he had learned his father had used something on her called an "obliviate,"…. or something). Then, when he'd been running back from playing in the field near his house (his father sometimes let him catch toads in the creek there, as long as he didn't go past their property line) and some strangers (older boys doing bad things that Harry now knew were smoking and drinking) had been on their property and when he'd yelled at them to leave, they had chased him, throwing sticks and stones. Harry had run his fastest, then jumped his hardest, only he didn't make a small leap over the creek as planned; when he'd landed, he'd been all the way back over the fence of their yard. When Harry had gone back in the house ranting and raving about yucky, stinky teenagers and asked his dad how he could fly (because yeah, that couldn't be the wind—it just couldn't—Harry wasn't a damn bird that could catch currents, for crap's sake and he knew it, even at six—plus with the hair thing last year, well…. Harry wanted _answers_ ) his dad had sat him down that day and explained accidental magic to him in detail.

Now that he was almost eleven and would be going to magic school soon, he hoped nothing would go wrong. I mean, he couldn't have that bad luck all the time, now could he? Besides, if they could teach him to use his magic at school, he should be able to sort of, hopefully, kind of control his outbursts, no? His dad said it mostly only happened as an instinct if he was really scared or angry. Harry was rarely scared (except maybe for his nightmares when he was at home, but his dad always made him tea to help him feel more relaxed—but being here, he'd begun t develop a fear of Vernon's pudgy fists) and he'd just try to not get angry.

As they drove along the motorway in the direction of the zoo (Harry, though he felt sorry for the animals in cages now that he had experienced the cupboard and was now of the opinion animal sanctuaries were the superior option, still had never been to a zoo or a sanctuary and so he was rather excited), Uncle Vernon (as usual) set about complaining loudly to Aunt Petunia. He went from subjects such as the people at work (even the interns wouldn't listen to him anymore), to Harry being in the house, the government, Harry not making a tasty enough breakfast this morning, the bank, Harry and his bird's nest hair—anything really, but once a motorbike roared by, though, that was it and he was off again.

Harry tuned into the last part of his statement and in his excitement at being out of the house (because let's face it, he may be Snape's kid but he's still only ten) forgot himself and murmured to Kyle, "I had a dream about a motorbike last night."

Kyle smiled at him encouragingly, so Harry continued in a whisper, "I think it was flying."

Unfortunately, he hadn't said it soft enough, as his uncle turned around violently in his seat, taking his eyes off the road and almost crashing the van to holler at the top of his lungs (in front of company, no less, and looking like nothing more than a large beet with a handlebar moustache), "MOTORBIKES CAN'T FLY, BOY!"

Kyle looked taken aback, but Dudley and Piers both sniggered aloud and Harold tried to hide a smirk behind his hand.

"I _know_ ," Harry said (though he wasn't sure—he knew brooms could fly, but motorbikes?) more confidently than he felt, "it was only a dream."

Now that he reflected back on it, he wished he hadn't said anything. Kyle might be nicer than anyone else in the car, but Harry wasn't sure if talking to him was worth the trouble he'd be in for doing it later…. After all, if there was anything he'd learned that his aunt and uncle hated even _more_ than questions, it was anything odd—or different than them, basically—such as him and what they called, 'his lot.' Honestly—they already _knew_ he was a wizard—did they expect him to start spouting fiery spells of doom simply because he'd dreamt about a flying motorbike, watched a cartoon with talking pumpkins or seen a cat reading a map? (Lol, #tbt Professor McGonagall!)

The Dursleys bought Dudley, Harold, Piers and Kyle large ice-creams (Kyle had offered to share his with Harry, which made the dark-haired boy smile—but the cashier had looked at his aunt and uncle funny and asked Harry what he wanted before they could usher him away—so his aunt had picked the cheapest thing on the menu) at the gate to the zoo, since it was so hot and then they had wandered about the primates exhibit—where Harry had to work really hard to hold his guffaws in when he noticed how much like a gorilla Dudley looked and when he watched two orang-utans picking at each other's hair, he couldn't help but think back to Uncle Vernon's rant about his hair that morning and imagining his uncle and cousins social-grooming each other and eating all of the lice. Kyle noticed him biting his lip and smiled questioningly. Not wanting to brush off the only person who'd been kind to him, he leaned in and pointed out the Dudley-gorilla. Kyle chuckled quietly as Harry whispered in his ear, earning them a suspicious glance from Harold, who proceeded to veer back round and pull his friend away by the arm, feigning an interest in showing the smaller boy the capuchin enclosure as he glared back at his cousin.

So far, Harry had been having the best morning he'd ever had since coming to his relatives, so, obviously, going by his luck, it was just about time that the shit hit the fan, so to speak. After Harold had stolen his company away, Harry had avoided both his cousins and Piers, in case they got any ideas, as they were already getting bored of the animals (honestly, Harry mused, the attention spans of goldfish…. still, he didn't relish the idea of getting pounded into a pulp). They had just taken a break to eat lunch at the restaurant attached to the aviary (Harry was disappointed there were no owls. He liked the one his dad used to send letters to Professor McGonagall, and the ones that brought letters from others were always different and interesting).

The ominous feeling was back and Harry shivered slightly as they entered the reptile house. As Kyle leaned in and asked if he was all right, Harry thought that he probably should have seen it coming. After all…. things just never went that well for him. He just answered that he was a bit cold, though, since the reptile house was a bit darker and cooler than where they'd just been. To which Kyle linked arms with him and said he should jump around to warm up. Then he rubbed his hands together, blew air on them and squished Harry's cheeks, laughing and asking if he wanted to borrow his sweater. Harry smiled and pushed Kyle's hands away half-heartedly, telling him he'd be all right—he'd never really had friends his own age, though and since he'd come here, all of Dudley and Harold's friends had teased him about his glasses (he'd tell his dad 'I told you so,' later) and baggy hand me downs (he had thought his dad's choice of all-black Muggle clothing had been a bit depressing until he'd been forced to wear those gross clothes of his cousin's; now he'd gladly switch back to the dark garb, if only because it would have fit him properly). Which is why he was glad Kyle was different—and he kept their arms linked as they crept around the different tanks when the other admitted he was a bit afraid of snakes.

Dudley, Piers and Harold gravitated towards the more dangerous reptiles. What they eventually found was tamer than what they'd hoped for, though still impressive in his own right. The greenish boa constrictor could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon (one of the longest constrictors on record was only 18 feet, so no…. it couldn't go twice around even a tiny sports car) and crushed him in half, but at the moment it was sleeping peacefully curled up. Dudley (honestly, Harry thought, no manners whatsoever) plastered his face right up against the glass of the cage and stared at the large reptile. Harold pulled Kyle away from Harry again (didn't he know his best friend was afraid of snakes?) and stepped up right beside Dudley, yanking the scared boy with him forcefully. Piers was on his other side, swinging off the enclosure railing like the brat he was. People were giving Petunia and Vernon looks.

Dudley turned his face around, hands still making smudges on the glass. "Make it mo-ove!" he whinged at his father. Uncle Vernon stepped up to the glass as well and tapped obnoxiously on the glass. Kyle moved back a bit.

The snake didn't even wake, so Vernon rapped even louder on the pane of glass.

"This is boring…. What else is there?" Dudley moved away, Piers following obediently at his side and Harold wandering slowly after them. Kyle, though afraid of the creature by his own admission, seemed frozen in some sort of morbid fascination now that Harold had let him be. He stayed back, but remained silently nearby as Harry slid up to the railing.

Harry stared intently through the glass of the tank. He felt for the snake, really, he did—the enclosure was larger by four times than Harry's cupboard, but at least Harry had only been there a month. The constrictor? Who even knew?

Probably sensing Harry's intense concentration on his person—er—snakiness?—the boa slowly opened his eyes and lifted it's head. Then it—winked? Harry shook his head and blinked. Then he peered over to his family, noticed they weren't paying him a mind and winked back.

Yup, Harry confirmed as the snake jabbed its tail in Vernon and Dudley's direction, it could wink. Apparently, speak as well, as it raised it's eyes to the ceiling in a snakey imitation of eye rolling and seemed to voice the thought, " _I get that_ all _the time, mate_."

Harry sidled further forward and leaned on the rail. "Yeah? It must be very annoying."

The snake nodded excitedly, obviously happy to have more intelligent company.

"Have you always lived here?" Harry inquired.

The snake shook its head yes. Harry sighed in disappointment. "I'm sorry."

If snakes could shrug, the boa probably would have, as it was, he simply lay back down sadly.

"I know how you feel, mate. I miss my home and my dad. So, have you never even been outside?"

As the green snake shook its head slowly, Harry was roughly shoved to the side as Piers reappeared beside him and shouted, "DUDLEY, HAROLD, COME QUICK! LOOK AT WHAT THIS SNAKE IS DOING!"

Dudley, followed at a more sedate pace by Harold, waddled over as fast as his legs could carry him. Once he arrived, he punched Harry in the gut, mouthing, "Out of the way, you!"

Harry almost stumbled backwards onto the ground, but he was caught from behind by Kyle, who looked as pale as if he'd just seen a ghost. Once Harry was up, Kyle didn't let go of his arm.

As Harry glared over at the blond that had knocked him over, he realised something with a sinking heart. He was angry. Harry was _really_ angry. What happened next was so quick almost no one knew how it happened. One second, the glass of the enclosure was there—next second, it had disappeared and Piers and Dudley, who had both been plastered to the glass were falling in, Dudley grabbing his brother's arm on the way down and dragging him with him. It _was_ rather funny, Harry mused in his head, how chubby Dudley's feet had flopped right over his head as they tumbled over the railing, and their howls were simply priceless. Harry took a step forward, Kyle moving with him as he gasped. The green boa had begun to uncoil and was slinking rapidly across the floor as people took notice and began screaming and running for the exits. The glass reappeared, effectively trapping his cousins and Piers in the enclosure, and the snake slithered by.

Harry could have sworn it whispered, "Thankssss, amigo!" as it passed him and Kyle.

Kyle tightened his grip on Harry's arm as the snake came within half a foot of them, almost painfully tight and Harry gulped as Vernon turned beady, accusing eyes on him.

The zookeeper responsible for the reptiles, finally alerted by one of the fleeing patrons, appeared on the scene. As Dudley, Piers and Harold were gotten out of the back of the enclosure, the director of the zoo apologised profusely to both of the Dursleys. Harold was fuming, Dudley was hyperventilating and all Piers could do was gibber incoherently. Harry was trying his level best to stay out of the way and as inconspicuous as possible (even though he really wanted to giggle at the show the younger Dursleys and the rat were putting on), and Kyle still hadn't left his side, now clutching his hand tightly. It comforted Harry (almost as much as it comforted his friend—who had literally felt petrified when the snake escaped), who knew that once they were 'home,' and Kyle and Piers left, he'd be pretty much done for.

As far as Harry had seen (and since he didn't really need glasses, and could see perfectly fine, thank you very much), all the constrictor had done was go by the boys' as the floundered in his puddle and he slithered past, but from the tale Piers was spinning, you'd think he'd tried to eat them alive.

Unfortunately, the rat-bastard of a boy calmed down enough by the time they were in the car at last to say, "You were _talking_ to it, weren't you, Potter?"

Kyle, who had been there the whole time and was most likely to have seen Harry, in fact, talking to the green snake piped up timidly, "No, he wasn't Piers. You must have been imaging things."

Harry smiled at him gratefully, but the rest of his family narrowed their eyes at them. The drive home was dead silent, save for Dudley's sobs (the git always played things up).

As Piers was being picked up from the Dursley's house again, and everyone else was distracted enough to not pay them any heed, Kyle murmured in Harry's ear, "Are you a wizard?"

Harry turned to face the other boy, mouth agape, nodding minutely.

Kyle nodded back slightly. "I thought so. Your family must be pretty hard on you, I know they don't like anything that's not 'normal.'" He used air quotes on the word normal and rolled his eyes, paused and squeezed Harry's hand one last time. "Good luck, Harry."

Then he, too, was gone and Harry was on his own. Aunt Petunia had shooed his cousins upstairs to 'calm down and take a nice, warm bath.' Vernon rounded on him, slammed a fist into the wall, sending drywall dust floating down and the pictures to shaking.

The blond mammoth ground out, "Cupboard—no meals—NOW." before he shoved Harry out of the way and threw himself into the nearest armchair, his wife immediately fetching him a large brandy and glaring at Harry when he didn't disappear fast enough.

It was much later that Harry lie, stomach grumbling loudly in the quiet of night, staring up at the cobwebs under the stairs above his mattress. He couldn't even sneak out for food anymore, for as soon as Vernon had downed his alcohol, he'd been right outside Harry's cupboard, installing a lock on the door.

Harry wished, with all his might, for his accidental magic to take him back to his dad. He squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear escaping against his will as he thought as hard as he could…. but when he opened his eyes, nothing had happened. Harry scrubbed his hands down his too-big shirt and kicked angrily at the foot of the mattress. He tried his best not to cry, as even though Professor McGonagall said it was okay to cry—he'd never seen his dad shed a tear and he was _determined_ to be as strong as he was and not let the ignorant old Dursleys break him. He sat up and started to change into a larger, softer t-shirt, so he'd at least be a little more comfortable for the night when he found a note in his pocket.

 _Harry,_

 _I knew you were a wizard because my big brother was a wizard too, but I'm not. If it gets so bad at your Aunt and Uncle's house, you can come hide with me. I promise I won't tell Harold. They don't like me either, they just pretend to because I'm Harold's best friend. He likes that I can help him and Dudley with schoolwork._

 _Kyle_

Underneath the other boy's hastily scrawled name, Harry could just make out his address, a street away and maybe two and a half blocks down from number four, Privet Drive. Harry hid the scrap of paper with Toy in the only safe place he had, other than inside his own mind—a little loose floorboard he could pry up under the top right corner of the mattress.

P.S. Sorry that this piece doesn't flow quite as nicely as 'For Granted,' or the majority of 'Perfect Storm,' it's just that I'm trying to fit in so much information to explain things that I get a bit carried away with the run-on sentences. I also realize I added so much to this chapter even though it's one of the 'originals' and not one of my own creations, but it needed it due to the changes I've made to the storyline overall. I hope it was still good even though I don't feel like it's my best chapter—I'm rather partial to the argument scene between Harry and Sev myself. And…. about the father/dad wording. I know it seems inconsistent, but I see Sev as the kind of parent to be called 'father,' but Harry is the kind of kid who'd want to call him, 'dad.' Plus, in the beginning, Sev would have found it weird to be called dad anyways, as he had thought James would raise Harry and he'd be like his uncle. So…. that's why it changes—mostly with the point of view. Oh, and the rest of Harry's 'punishment' will be included in the next chapter. The reappearing glass only happened in the movie and not the book, but I liked it that way. Thanks, as always, for reading. Love and hugs, Tamer!


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